Текст книги "Deliverance Lost"

Автор книги: Гэв Торп

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

‘That is one of our standard rounds, against Mark IV armour,’ said Binalt. ‘As you can see, the effect is limited.’

‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Agapito.

‘Yet at the Urgall massacre, the traitors cut down thousands of legionaries with their bolters,’ continued Binalt. The words sounded cold, but he remembered painfully the sight and sound of his fellow Raven Guard butchered in the ambush. He had felt helpless, the rounds from his bolt pistol barely scratching the armour of the traitors while their weapons cut through the Raven Guard without mercy. ‘I recovered pieces, fragments of the ammunition used by the enemy, from the armour of legionaries who withdrew successfully.’

Taking the bolter from Agapito, Binalt swapped the magazine for another and gave the weapon back to the commander.

‘I was also able to procure a few experimental rounds our brothers in the Imperial Fists secured from Mars before it was embroiled by division. We haven’t got the facilities to replicate them here, but I think I have devised a close approximation.’

Agapito sighted again and fired. This time, the other shoulder pad of the armour erupted into spinning fragments and droplets of molten ceramite.

‘ Vengeance…’ muttered the commander. He lowered the bolter and looked at the Techmarine. ‘This is impressive, but also profoundly worrying. It means that the traitors had access to Martian developments before Isstvan.’

‘The roots of their rebellion have delved deeply, commander,’ Binalt agreed with a sombre nod. ‘We are not without countermeasures. Please fire at the central suit.’

The middle stand held one of the suits that had been modified by Binalt’s multi-plate, reinforced shoulder pads. This time, Agapito’s shot caught the armour’s shoulder guard flush on the rim. As with the last shot there was a great explosion of debris, but as the ringing died down, both Raven Guard could clearly see that only the outer layer of armour had been shredded; the inner plating was intact.

Agapito was quiet, staring at the armoured mannequins at the far end of the hall. He distractedly handed the bolter back to Binalt, attention still fixed on the damaged suits.

‘What is the matter, commander?’ asked the Techmarine. ‘Is something not satisfactory?’

‘I killed at least a hundred Space Marines on Isstvan,’ Agapito said quietly. ‘They were Legiones Astartes, just like us. Something I had never thought I would have to do.’

The commander shook his head abruptly, breaking his distant stare.

‘This war will not end easily. We must all get used to the idea now.’

THUNDER PEALED FROM Therion’s dark clouds and lightning split the violet evening sky, glittering from the glass walls of the Great Conservatory. Ten thousand panes of glass reflected the tumult in the heavens, bright even against the lights that glowed within.

The hippocants snorted mist in the cold, their shaggy coats thick with moisture as the coach driver urged them on through the strengthening rain. The road ahead was fast becoming a stream, water flowing down from the tree-lined embankments that flanked it as it speared across the estate towards the sprawling mansion. The driver was swathed in oilskins, only his nose and eyes visible as he turned to speak into the grille on the body of the carriage behind him.

‘Almost there, praefector,’ said Pelon, voice muffled.

‘Very good, Pelon,’ came Valerius’s tinny reply.

The Therion servant pulled up the lapels of his heavy coat and adjusted the cord under his chin that kept his broad hat from being whisked away by the wind. It was not an ideal arrangement, but Valerius had been adamant that they depart for his father’s palace as soon as possible. The rare storm had prevented them taking an airfoil, and a noble of Therion would never be seen travelling in a gascart, leaving the far more traditional means of the coach as the only option.

Broad-tyred wheels hissed through the puddles as Pelon slowed the carriage to negotiate a small bridge that humped over a foaming stream. The hippocants were controlled by a small box set into a pedestal beside the driver. As his deft fingers moved the levers, pressure bladders in the creatures’ harnesses reacted to the radio signal, inflating or deflating in sequence to guide the creatures left and right, urge them on or quell their momentum.

The gate ahead was open already and they passed beneath the arch of silver wrought as two coiling serpents: the ruling crest of Therion.

‘Take us straight to the west entrance,’ Valerius instructed over the tannoy.

Pelon steered the carriage over the gravel of the compound, the clawed feet of the hippocants throwing up stones to clatter against the bottom of the driving board. He brought them to a halt and then guided them forwards step by step until the carriage door was level with the raised brick walkway that led up to the columned entrance to the Great Conservatory.

Many of the windows were open despite the tempest. Pelon saw the telltale glimmer of weathershields glowing around the open frames. The sound of music and conversation could just be heard over the rain. Pelon engaged the brakes and dropped the anchor lines over the haunches of the hippocants before twisting in his seat to disengage the door lock. With a puff of pneumatics, the door swung out. Pelon dragged out a large rain canopy from under his seat and jumped down to the walkway in time for Valerius to step out under the vast umbrella.

‘Seems there’s a bit of a party going on,’ remarked Valerius as he strode up the rain-soaked pathway, Pelon trotting along beside, struggling to keep hold of the red and white canopy acting as a sail in the wind.

‘Your niece’s birthday, praefector,’ said Pelon.

‘Which one?’

‘Darius’s youngest, Nisella,’ replied Pelon.

‘Oh, her,’ said Valerius. ‘Such a pretty young thing.’

‘Not so young now, praefector,’ said Pelon. They reached the short flight of steps that led up to the entranceway. ‘She is six years old now. A woman, not a girl.’

‘What’s that in Terran?’ said the praefector as he mounted the steps. ‘I don’t see why you insist on using the old calendar, Pelon.’

Because it served us well enough for eighty generations before compliance, thought Pelon, but instead he said, ‘That would be roughly seventeen Terran years, praefector.’

‘Time passes so quickly,’ observed Valerius as they passed under the glass awning of the entrance.

Liveried servants took the umbrella from Pelon and sponged down Valerius’s moist uniform without comment. They carried themselves with the easy manner of men who had served in the Cohort and the skull buttons on their lapels attested to the fact. They made no inquiry of the new arrivals and silently stepped aside to allow the pair entry. That Valerius wore the red sash of the Therion elite was proof enough of his right to attend the function. For an imposter to wear the red was the only capital crime left on Therion.

Pelon led the way across the deep carpets, the rain rattling on the canopy of glass above their heads. More attendants waited at the doors to the conservatory with gold trays holding spiral-stemmed glasses of wine. Pelon appropriated one for his master, but the praefector declined the drink with a wave of his hand and stepped through the door. Pelon downed the glass’s contents in one gulp and placed it back on the tray with a wink, earning himself a scowl of disapproval from the servants. Valerius’s manservant was not the least worried about their disapproval. As simple household servants they were far below an attendant to a praefector in the informal hierarchy of the serving class.

He followed a respectful distance behind Valerius as the praefector made his way across the conservatory. The festivities were in full swing. Gaily dressed women with jewelled hairpieces twirled and curtsied as they danced with men decked out in their fine uniforms braided and brocaded with gold, a whirl of sparkling colour and gems. Chandeliers hanging from the white-painted iron of the conservatory lit all with a soft blue glow, adding to the unreal atmosphere.

On a small side stage a quintet played a tune on hunt-flutes and rhintars, the slow tempo of their piece dictating the whole rhythm of the partygoers. Even those not dancing seemed to congregate and separate in time to the beat, taking measured paces with each skirl and strum.

Valerius was not in time to this rhythm, hurrying towards a set of spiral stairs that led to a gallery overlooking the proceedings. The praefector kept bumping into people or dodging to avoid them at the last moment, so his progress became a series of faltering steps punctuated by bowed apologies. Pelon closed the gap and assisted his master, picking up dislodged hats, dropped scabbards and canes, and smoothing ruffled skirts and jacket sleeves in Valerius’s wake.

A broad-chested man with thick sideburns and beetling brows emerged from the throng just in front of Valerius. He wore a red and black sash over his blue uniform, indicating he had served with the Cohort but was no longer a licensed officer. He slapped a hand to Valerius’s shoulder, almost knocking the surprised praefector from his feet.

‘Marcus!’ boomed the man, who Pelon now recognised as Raulius Tabalian, one of the distant family cousins. He was much larger of gut and jowl than when Pelon had last seen him, which had been at least five Terran years before.

‘I’m sorry, I have to speak urgently with my father,’ said Valerius, pushing past. Tabalian turned to one of his companions with a scowl.

‘Apologies, Equerre Tabalian, my master has very pressing concerns to discuss with the Caesari,’ Pelon said hurriedly as he came level with the man. ‘I am sure the praefector will find time to reacquaint himself with you soon.’

Valerius’s progress had caused quite a stir, rippling out from his path like a bow wave of distraction. Tabalian and several others followed him to the spiral stair, the crowd growing to nearly a dozen by the time the praefector was mounting the wrought iron steps. Pelon made his way through the press with as little shoving as possible and ran up the stairs to catch his master.

The ruling dignitaries of Therion sat on low couches overlooking the floor of the conservatory, even more marvellous in their finery than those below. The band finished playing and the half-dozen members of Valerius’s family rose to their feet with polite applause.

‘Look, father, Marcus is here!’ This came from a woman a little older than the praefector, his sister Miania. All eyes turned towards him as he stepped up to the gallery balustrade, tucking his helmet under one arm as he presented himself with a short bow.

‘Caesari,’ said the praefector, eyes fixed on the plushly carpeted floor.

‘Praefector,’ replied his father with equal formality.

Caesari Valentinus Valerius was one of the youngest to hold the office, just over seventeen years old; in his late fifties as Terrans measured time. He was even shorter and slighter than his eldest son, clean shaven and with thinning blond hair that was pulled back in a short knot at the base of his skull. His uniform was bedecked with frogging and medals; honours he had rightfully earned in the Therion Cohort alongside the Emperor and Raven Guard.

The Caesari extended his hand in greeting, the thumb and two other digits replaced by mechanical augmetics. Likewise his right ear was a prosthetic device, and he stood slightly lop-sided on his bionic leg. Marcus took the hand and briefly pursed his lips to his father’s knuckles before straightening.

‘Welcome back to Therion, my son,’ declared the Caesari, embracing Marcus tightly.

‘Do not hoard him to yourself,’ said Juliana, the Caesari’s wife. She prised her husband’s arms from her son and replaced them with her own, planting an audible kiss on the praefector’s cheek.

‘I have important news,’ said Marcus, freeing himself from his mother’s grip.

Pelon glanced over the balcony to see that the party-goers were all paying attention to what passed amongst the ruling family: glasses were held halfway to lips, conversations had dried away.

‘Get yourself a drink, Marcus,’ said Antonius, the younger of the Caesari’s two sons. He looked like a fairer-headed version of his older brother, save for the pockmark of a bullet scar on the right side of his chin. ‘Why so glum?’

‘Yes, son, settle and tell us what you’ve been up to,’ said Juliana, lifting up a wineglass from a shelf set upon the balustrade. ‘It’s been such a long time.’

‘Horus has rebelled against the Emperor.’

The praefector’s blurted words carried far across the conservatory, hushing the few discussions that had continued. From below came the clatter of metal and shattering of glass as a servant spilled his tray in shock.

‘What did you say?’ demanded the Caesari. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The Sons of Horus are traitors,’ said Marcus. He snatched the glass from his mother’s hand with trembling fingers and swallowed the contents. When he continued, it was in a whisper. ‘The Warmaster seeks to overthrow the Emperor. Many of the Legiones Astartes have sided with Lupercal. There is going to be civil war.’

‘This must be a mistake,’ said Juliana. ‘Perhaps some of his Legion, but Horus himself…’

‘What of the Raven Guard?’ asked the Caesari.

‘This makes no sense,’ said Antonius. ‘Are you sure?’

‘It happened at Isstvan,’ said the praefector, the muscles in his jaw clenching at the memory. ‘I saw what happened. I and a handful of others are all that remains of the Therion Cohort. The Raven Guard, they are loyal. Lord Corax sent me here. They were all but destroyed, and it looks as if the traitors finished the job on the Salamanders and Iron Hands.’

The Caesari slumped back onto his couch, face as white as snow, mouth open in dumb shock. Pelon heard the chattering on the main floor and saw some of the guests heading towards the doors. He cautiously tugged at the elbow of his master’s coat.

‘Praefector, might I make a suggestion?’

‘Be quiet, Pelon,’ said Marcus, pulling away his arm.

‘Some of the guests are leaving,’ Pelon said, pointing across the conservatory. ‘Rumours, master, can be damaging.’

‘Your man’s right,’ said Antonius. He turned to the Caesari. ‘Father, if this news spreads in the wrong way, it will cause hysteria and panic.’

The Caesari beckoned with a raised hand and his chief counsellor, Tribune Pellis, rose from his seat at the far end of the gallery.

‘Nobody is to leave yet,’ said Valentinus. ‘Confiscate all personal communication devices. Not until we’ve drafted an official proclamation. That includes servants. Have the veterans stationed at every exit, I want nobody coming in or out until I say otherwise.’

Pellis nodded wordlessly and withdrew. The Caesari was recovering from the shock and stood up. He gave Marcus a troubled glance and then began to pace, circling around the couch.

‘I assume Corax sent you to raise a new Cohort,’ he said, receiving a nod of affirmation from his son. ‘Manpower shouldn’t be a problem, we’ve been turning away volunteers for the last two years. We’ll need ships to replace the losses, though.’

‘Natol Prime, there’s a fleet there,’ said Antonius. ‘Old ships, returning with the Natol regiments, but they’ll serve well enough if you send word to the council there.’

‘Yes, and we can get help from the forge-world at, oh, what’s the damned place called?’

‘Some of the Mechanicum have allied with Horus,’ Marcus said before the question could be answered. ‘You mean Beta Cornix, father. Best to make sure which side they are on before you go to them.’

The Caesari stopped in his tracks and was again struck dumb for a moment with distress at this news, his expression almost imploring his son to retract what he had said. The unease passed in a few seconds and the Caesari continued his striding.

‘That will make weapons acquisition a problem,’ said Valentinus.

‘The forges of Kiavahr can supply any shortfall,’ said the praefector.

‘Good, good. I’ll have Pellis start the muster first thing in the morning. We can sort out the details once the initial orders have been despatched.’ The Caesari stopped and gripped the rail. Below, servants were herding the guests towards the main building, corralling them like hippocants. A musician protested loudly as he was manhandled from the stage, waving his lyrepipe above his head like a regimental banner. ‘Anything else we need to decide now?’

‘The commander,’ said Juliana. ‘You’re not leaving Therion to go running off to war, not at a time like this.’

The Caesari’s expression sagged with disappointment as he nodded. His lips twitched for a second or two while he considered the problem. Valentinus smiled and looked at Marcus again.

‘Well, no need to look too far, is there, my son?’ said the Therion ruler. He slapped a hand to the praefector’s shoulder. ‘You know more about what is happening than any of us. You can lead the Cohort.’

‘I am honoured, father, but I am only a praefector,’ said Marcus.

‘Nonsense. I’m in charge. You’re vice-Caesari now. Full authority. Antonius will take over as praefector.’

Marcus shook his head in disbelief, mouth opening and closing several times before he remembered his station. He dropped to one knee and took his father’s hand, kissing the knuckles.

‘I will serve,’ he said, speaking the oathwords of the Cohort. ‘For the Emperor above all others. For Therion and Enlightenment.’

Pelon suppressed a smile. Being servant to a praefector was one thing, being aide to a vice-Caesari was something far grander. If he was lucky, and he could see no reason why he didn’t deserve a piece of luck, he might even be made a sub-tribune to recognise his status.

‘Ensure your master’s rooms are ready,’ Juliana said to Pelon. ‘Without warning of his arrival, I have no idea what state they are in.’

With a bow, Pelon accepted the slight admonishment and withdrew. Even as a sub-tribune he would still have to fold down the sheets. It gave him comfort to think that there were some things in life that even the treachery of a Warmaster could not change.

ELEVEN

Rebirth Begins

Unauthorised Transmission

Doubts Arise

THE BEEPS OF the machines and background thrum of energy cables triggered a sense of comfort in Corax as he stepped into the sterile chamber of the new gene-tech facility. Centrifuges whirred and servitors plodded from work station to work station with samples and tests. Vincente Sixx, divested of his armour, sat at a bank of five screens, data tables and helical displays large on the monitors.

At a long table covered with data tablets and instrumentation, Nexin Orlandriaz pored over a transparent sheet, idly tapping the fingers of his free hand against an empty crucible. Sixx looked over his shoulder as Corax strode across the tiled floor. Orlandriaz was too absorbed in his work to notice the arrival of the primarch.

The thud of the servitor’s metal-shod feet disturbed the peace, the clacking of a crude teleprinter burst into life as an analyser spewed out its latest findings. On closer inspection, the room was balanced on the line between order and anarchy. Sixx’s area was tidy, disciplined and compact, while the magos’s work sprawled over several desktops and was piled on trolleys left haphazardly around the tech-priest’s high stool.

‘You reported significant difficulties,’ Corax said, stopping to look over Sixx’s shoulder at the displays. ‘What is the problem?’

‘Compatibility,’ said Orlandriaz, emerging from his contemplation, massively dilated pupils shrinking as he focused on Corax. ‘The Emperor did something to streamline the primarch material to create the Legiones Astartes template, but the possible permutations are too numerous to investigate. My mathematical analysis suggests it would take at least five years of continual study to narrow down our options to a number more suitable for physical experimentation.’

Corax looked at Sixx, eyebrow raised.

‘It has only been twenty days,’ said the primarch. ‘A little early to admit defeat, isn’t it?’

‘The primarch genetic coding is vastly more complex than standard Raven Guard gene-seed,’ the Apothecary explained. ‘The Emperor extracted only a few elements of the original data to create the Legiones Astartes strain, and about a dozen more in the Legio Custodes data we retrieved from the Terran vault. To isolate the rapid maturation and cell cloning abilities you desire, and graft them onto our own gene-seed, we have to retroactively engineer the Raven Guard gene-seed with the appropriate sequence. There are millions of sequences that might be applied, even from a single primarch strand, and there are twenty unique primarch codes to choose from.’

‘Take this one, sample four, as an indicator,’ said the genetor majoris. ‘We have managed to identify at least six unique sub-complexes and protein strands geared towards physical durability, above and beyond that found in the others. In the same sample, there is a dearth of certain enhanced genes that, in our estimation, boost the cytoarchetectonic structure responsible for the development of nociceptors and proprioceptory function. The deficiency seems to be deliberate. In subject six there is a whole suite of genetic encoding derived from a non-human source, possibly canine. In subject twenty, a whole suite of growth boosting augmentations is absent. In all, we have catalogued seven hundred and eighty-three variations between the samples. This leaves the common, core material, the primarch essence for want of a better term, exceptionally small compared to what I expected.’

‘I see,’ said Corax. He knew enough about genetic manipulation to understand the problem they were facing, but even his extensive biological knowledge was insufficient to propose a solution. He stared at the screen for some time, letting the revolving images of different cell helices float into his consciousness. He studied the data tables, absorbing the information without consciously reading it, hoping it would trigger some insight from the Emperor.

All he could remember was sadness.

It was a struggle to keep motivated, to repeat the research that had taken so many centuries to perfect. All had been swept away by… By what, Corax could not quite remember. The Emperor’s memories were blank on the matter. The primarch concentrated on what had happened after the period of ignorance.

There was hope in his heart. His ambition had been misplaced. Rather than create twenty superhuman warriors, he could create thousands, hundreds of thousands of next-generation soldiers. Each would have a fraction of the power of the primarchs, it was true, but their numbers would more than make up for the difference. Corax held an image for a moment, a picture of rank after rank of armoured warriors, fists and banners raised in salute. He would create an army. Something more than an army: a Legion.

Intellect fired by his imagination, he set to work with this new goal in mind. There was no need to create this Legion from a single zygotic embryo. Humanity numbered in its billions, just on Terra alone. Through Corax’s thoughts, the Emperor discarded swathes of the primarch genetic data, deemed redundant in light of his new plans. He focused on amending all of his findings from the primarch project, filtering out those abilities and traits that could only be gene-bred from inception, concentrating on transferable, implantable genetic strands.

The primarch latched onto those memories, delving deeper. As he did so, Corax edged Sixx aside and pulled a touch-screen interface closer. Hesitantly at first, he began to tap the screen, navigating his way through the mass of coded information. His fingers picked up speed as the memories came faster and faster. Fingertips dancing over the screen, Corax delved into the intricacies of the primarch genes, separating out those sequences and proteins discarded by the Emperor, following in his creator’s remembered footsteps. The shifting displays and tables blurred as the primarch continued, isolating gene-fragments and cell duplication segments, tossing some aside, moving others into a separate partition.

For five minutes he worked at furious pace, linking unconscious recall to conscious action. Orlandriaz had moved up beside him at some point and was staring at the flow of information spreading across the screens, nodding ferociously while he muttered to himself.

Corax stopped, taking a deep breath as he straightened.

‘Masterful,’ whispered Orlandriaz.

‘Perhaps if you could spare us five more minutes, lord, we could solve the whole problem,’ said Sixx, grinning broadly.

‘If only it were that simple,’ said Corax. He had not worked out anything, simply remembered it. The Emperor had never attempted to create what Corax sought, and so there was no base of knowledge for him to recall. ‘That still leaves you with seventy-two different gene-strands to analyse.’

‘A moment, please,’ said Orlandriaz, laying his hand on Corax’s arm as the primarch turned away. Corax glanced down in annoyance at the magos’s clutching fingers, noticing that the tech-priest’s fingernails looked to be made of a dull bronze. Realising his error, Nexin took his hand away and nodded his head in apology.

‘Forgive me, Lord Corax,’ said the magos. ‘Whilst taking a break from our analystical studies, the Chief Apothecary and I engaged in a debate that was without resolution. I seek your opinion on the matter.’

‘What debate?’ asked Corax, darting a look at Sixx, who was frowning at his companion.

‘It is my belief that your plans could be taken a stage further,’ said the magos.

‘It is out of the question,’ said Sixx, making a cutting motion with his hand. ‘It is against our every principle.’

‘What is?’ said Corax.

‘It seems that we might actually make our task easier if we were to incept the project from an initial cellular generation, rather than hybridisation of an existing organism.’

‘Cloning,’ snapped Sixx. ‘The magos thinks we should clone new warriors from scratch rather than modify the gene-seed for implantation. I reminded him that there are many more complications associated with such a process, not to mention the problems it will create in the future.’

‘Your arguments were irrational,’ said Orlandriaz, scowling back at the Chief Apothecary. ‘Emotive.’

‘Every possibility must be explored,’ said Corax. He raised a hand to silence a protest from Sixx. A passing thought of the Emperor had surfaced in his mind, a philosophical point his creator had concluded when the primarchs had been taken from him.

‘With that said, direct cloning must be considered only as a final option if there is no other solution. Magos, there is good reason why the Emperor did not directly clone his new Legions from a single template cell. The resultant legionaries would be identical. Without the random mutation present in the wider human genetic structure, there is no possibility for variation. The Legiones Astartes are successful because we are similar, but not identical. Qualities such as leadership, intellect and aptitude for different disciplines allow us to be flexible and to fulfil many roles.

‘Even the primarchs were not created equal in all measures. The Emperor understood the importance of variation. Beyond that, there is another consideration. The Legiones Astartes are humanity’s warriors, separated and superior in many ways, but always raised up from amongst those they lead and protect. A legionary may be a neo-human, but he wasonce human. A legionary is the incarnation of the Emperor’s plan, a perfect symbol and example for mankind to aspire to, not simply a tool of war. It is humanity that the Emperor will lead in the conquest of the galaxy, not some new species made to order in a laboratory.’

‘Thank you, lord,’ said Sixx, with a sidelong look at Orlandriaz. ‘More eloquent than I could ever phrase it.’

‘I understand your position and reasoning,’ said the magos. ‘I will comply with your direction.’

‘Make it work,’ said Corax. ‘That perfect symbol has been tarnished by Horus. I would see it shine brightly again.’

THE ATMOSPHERE IN the docking bay changed as the primarch entered, Commander Branne following a few steps behind. Navar Hef felt the increase in tension and reacted, standing just a little straighter, puffing out his chest just a little further. It was only the second time he had seen the primarch in person. The first had been on his acceptance into the recruits for the Raven Guard. Now Corax was here, only eight days after his return to Deliverance, ready to inspect the next generation of recruits. Navar’s eyes followed the primarch as he strode along the gallery at the end of the hall, as did two hundred and ninety-nine other pairs. It was testament to the primarch’s thoroughness that he was taking the time for this, when there would be so many other demands made upon him.

The three hundred novitiates stood to attention, a block of black-robed young men with lean bodies, close-cropped hair and eager eyes. Navar felt the wave of pride that flowed through the group as Corax nodded his head in acknowledgement of the massed recruits. A simple, easy gesture for the primarch, but one that spoke of a respect that could not be matched by any other individual, save if the Emperor himself had come to see them.

The orders for the recruit company to pack their few possessions and gather at Ravenspire’s Centrus Terminal had started a wave of speculation throughout the novitiate blocks adjoining the great tower. Navar was of the opinion that they were going to be shipped out direct to the fighting, as many were. He had heard, second-hand unfortunately, of the losses the Legion had suffered on Isstvan V, and knew that Corax would not take such a defeat lightly. Some had said they were being evacuated to Terra, that Deliverance was under immediate threat and the whole Legion was retreating. Navar had argued against such nay-saying. The Raven Guard would defend their home to the last man, he was sure of it.

There were some who claimed that the stories circulating about Horus’s treachery were simply a test of their determination, rumours circulated by the primarch to see who had the fortitude to be a true legionary. Some, a boring few in Navar’s opinion, reckoned that after the hiatus following Branne’s departure, the normal procedure was being implemented and they were simply being moved on to the next stage of their training. Navar was equally dismissive of these claims; he knew he was an able fighter and physically superior to most of Deliverance’s youth, but at ten Terran years old he and many of the others were simply too young to begin the enhancement process yet.