Текст книги "Deliverance Lost"

Автор книги: Гэв Торп

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

TWELVE

Brothers in Conflict

Mark VI

Creation of the Raptors

SITTING ON A shallow chair in his rooms, Branne stared at the data tablet laid on the table in front of him. A perfunctory knock on the metal bulkhead preceded Agapito’s entry. Branne glanced up at his brother and waved him to the couch opposite.

‘What is it, brother?’ asked Agapito, choosing to stand. ‘Lord Corax tells me there has been a significant development in the gene-project. We are to accompany him to Ravendelve.’

‘Yes, I heard,’ said Branne. He glanced at the digital chronometer on the table next to the data-slate. ‘We have a little time.’

‘You seem preoccupied,’ said Agapito. He lightened the comment with a smile. ‘Is Commander of Recruits proving more of a challenge than you thought?

‘I keep having to put myself between Sixx and that magos, with the primarch constantly demanding updates. But that’s not what I want to talk about.’ Branne handed the slate to his brother, the transmission data highlighted. ‘Can you explain that?’

Agapito looked at the tablet and frowned. He glanced at Branne and then looked back at the data-slate.

‘That is my command channel,’ said Agapito.

‘I know,’ replied Branne.

‘I don’t recognise the transmission code, though. Some kind of glitch in the system?’

‘You tell me, brother.’

Looking sharply at Branne, Agapito dropped the tablet back on the metal table with a clang.

‘Those are ominous words, Branne,’ said the commander. ‘I detect accusation behind them.’

‘Just interest,’ replied Branne. ‘Call it my curiosity. Tell me, why is there an irregular transmission from your channel, broadcast on a non-Legion frequency?’

‘I do not know, brother,’ said Agapito. ‘If you have some charge to make, then speak it plainly; your crude hinting is testing my patience.’

Branne stood up and met his brother’s gaze directly. He folded his arms across his chest and regarded Agapito for a few seconds, gauging his expression. The commander of the Talons looked genuinely confused and upset.

‘You offer no explanation for this?’ said Branne.

‘None,’ replied Agapito, his tone belligerent. ‘Do you offer any explanation for your suspicion?’

Breathing in deeply, Branne considered his next move. It was likely that Agapito was genuinely ignorant of the transmission, which gave him a bigger problem: someone had accessed the command communications without authorisation. Branne was not sure which was the worst scenario.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I will have Ephrenia look into it more closely. Maybe it is a glitch.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Agapito. ‘Don’t you want to take me down to the Red Level and subject me to a more rigorous interrogation?’

Branne snarled, offended by the implication. The Red Level was where the punishment cells had been located during the years of Kiavahran suppression. They had had a bloody reputation back then, and the thought of the tortures that prisoners had undergone in that dark place set Branne’s teeth on edge even now.

‘Sorry, brother, that was uncalled-for,’ said Agapito, offering out his hand in apology. Branne took it after a moment’s hesitation.

‘I don’t understand you, brother, not since Isstvan,’ Branne confessed. ‘It worries me.’

‘No need for it,’ said Agapito, with a grin that Branne could clearly see was forced. ‘You have plenty of concerns already without adding me to the list.’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Branne, with another glance at the chronometer. ‘We had best get armoured, the primarch will expect us at the dock soon.’

‘You can talk to me, brother,’ said Agapito. ‘About the recruitment project, if you need to. I have not been able to pay half as much attention to it as I would like, not with all of my time taken up with the Legion reorganisation.’

‘How are the Talons shaping up?’

‘Good. Better than expected, given the circumstances. A few discipline problems now and then, but nothing I can’t straighten out. They’ve had a hard time of late.’

‘Don’t go easy on them, brother,’ said Branne, indicating for Agapito to head for the door. ‘It’s going to get a lot harder.’

As he watched Agapito leave, Branne could not shake off a question that he wanted to ask but could not bring himself to voice: why are you lying to me, brother?

IN AN ANTECHAMBER of the infirmary in Ravendelve, Corax waited with a mixture of anticipation and foreboding. Cabinets lined one wall, shelves laden with a mass of medical devices on the opposite side. Metal benches had been cleared of other equipment to serve as seats. It had been four days since he had authorised the first implantation sequence. Vincente Sixx had been cautious in his advice, but Orlandriaz had been adamant they were ready to proceed to the next logical stage.

Agapito and Branne waited with their primarch. Sensing his mood, they had said little, but Corax detected an undercurrent of tension between the two commanders. Corax was sure it was due to disagreements about the gene-project.

A scrape at the door caught the attention of all in the room. Corax took a sharp breath, but let it out when he saw that it was Solaro and Aloni. They offered terse greetings and sat themselves next to their fellow commanders.

‘Let’s hope this has worked, eh?’ said Aloni.

‘Nothing to lose,’ said Solaro. ‘If it does not work, we are where we started out.’

‘It will work,’ said Corax. He had spent every moment he had to spare on the gene-seed manipulation, combining his own knowledge and fragments of the Emperor’s memories with the research of Sixx and Orlandriaz. The primarch had scrutinised every gene-sequence and permutation and was convinced the Chief Apothecary and tech-priest had found the solution.

With that assurance, the commanders waited in silence. Agapito fidgeted, tapping his fingers on his kneepads, stopping when he earned himself a scowl from Branne. Corax wished he could have overseen the final implantation himself, as the Emperor had personally attended to the primarchs’ creation, but his sheer size had made it impractical for him to stay in the sterile chamber where the process was taking place.

The door opened again, revealing Vincente Sixx. The Apothecary was dressed in surgical robes, a smear of blood across the front. He peeled off a pair of thin gloves and stuffed them into a pocket across his stomach.

‘How are they?’ asked Corax, standing up.

‘Come and see for yourself,’ said Sixx.

Corax followed the Apothecary out of the door, the commanders behind him. Stepping into the main infirmary, the primarch was struck by how cold it was. He remembered that the recruits had been placed in a brief cryobiotic state as a precaution against rampant cell reproduction – a stage in the process Corax hoped to eliminate with the next group of recruits if this proved successful. The chill was emanating from the nine men standing bare-chested, close to their beds alongside one wall. They wore loose trousers and soft boots, the air around them filled with faint vapour from their warming bodies.

All nine were the same physically, as tall and broad as a legionary. Some of their facial structure remained distinct, allowing the primarch to identify each with the recruits he had wished well before their transformation. Their bodies were free of hair still and their skin was pale – almost albino like their primarch. He also noticed that every subject had dark eyes. Not quite the black orbs he possessed, but certainly far greyer than even those of previous Raven Guard.

There were identical surgical marks on the bodies of all nine, though the scars were already becoming indistinct. The pattern was instantly recognisable to any member of the Legiones Astartes, as was the discolouration beneath the skin of their torso and shoulders.

‘They have their black carapaces already?’ said Solaro.

‘They have every enhanced organ you possess, commander,’ said Orlandriaz, emerging from behind the group of giant post-humans. ‘The black carapace must still be implanted as before, it being a mostly artificial construct.’

‘And the rest are grown naturally?’ said Branne. He took a step closer to the new legionaries, examining them carefully. The recruits stood to attention with eyes firmly fixed ahead, not reacting to the scrutiny of their superiors.

‘Yes,’ said Sixx, gesturing for one of the men – Corax remembered his name as Halvar Diaro – to step forwards. ‘Several of the gene-seed implantations will not be necessary when the process is perfected. They serve only to prepare the body for later implants and have no direct effect after maturation.’

‘What about the progenoids?’ asked Solaro. ‘Do they mature quickly too?’

‘They do,’ said Orlandriaz, with something of a smirk. ‘However, they will also become unnecessary once we have completed our work. Once the modified gene-seed is finished, we will be able to reproduce from source. There will be no need of the antiquated in-host maturation you currently rely upon.’

‘We can make as many gene-seed sets as we like,’ explained Sixx. ‘Numbers will only be limited by the availability of recruits.’

Corax only half-heard the exchange as the commanders continued to ask questions about the recruits’ capabilities and physical enhancements. He was captivated by the nine men, marvelling in their existence. He knew every cell in their bodies better than he knew the Ravenspire, yet to see them in the flesh was breathtaking. They were perfect examples of the Legiones Astartes.

‘Where is the tenth man?’ asked Agapito, breaking through Corax’s admiration. The primarch turned a raised brow to the two men who were architects of the project.

Sixx and Orlandriaz shared a look. The Chief Apothecary sighed.

‘A minute defect in the heart, microscopic, was ruptured by the accelerated cell generation,’ said Sixx. ‘It would have happened even with regular gene-seed.’

‘Avoidable,’ added the tech-priest. ‘More thorough screening will eliminate the problem.’

‘I thought the plan was that we would be able to relax the recruitment criteria,’ said Agapito.

‘In time, we will,’ said Corax. He walked up to the man who had stepped forwards and laid a hand on his shoulder. He glanced back at the commanders. ‘The next stage of development will be to introduce sequences in the gene-seed that will be retroactive. Genetic weaknesses and minor physical discrepancies will be eliminated by the introduction of the superior gene-seed.’

There were looks exchanged between the others in the room as they absorbed the full portent of Corax’s words: an almost limitless supply of legionaries.

‘If that can be achieved, if the gene-tech can be passed on to the other loyal Legions, those loyal to the Emperor would outnumber the traitors within months,’ the primarch continued, meeting the gaze of Diaro. ‘These nine are the first of thousands – tens of thousands when we have finished. It is for that reason we must do everything we can to force Horus to hold back his attack on Terra. Not only will we gain time for Dorn to build ever greater defences, we buy ourselves the space to rebuild after the losses of Isstvan.’

The group of commanders circled around the recruits, examining them from every angle. Corax felt a moment of concern, realising the attitude he had towards these newest Raven Guard. They were not just experimental subjects, not just benchmarks on a path to recovery. They were warriors of the Legiones Astartes.

‘I have an important question to ask you,’ he said to Diaro, crouching so that he was level with the man’s eyes. ‘Answer it truthfully.’

‘Yes, Lord Corax,’ the recruit replied, his voice now deep, edged with a husky timbre.

‘How do you feel?’

Diaro looked at the other newly-created legionaries and they all broke into smiles. Another of them answered the question first.

‘I feel good, Lord Corax. Strong, healthy.’

‘Ready to fight?’ asked Branne.

‘Yes, commander,’ said Diaro. He banged a fist against his heavily-muscled chest. ‘Ready to kill traitors.’

THE INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS chime disturbed Corax’s study of the latest test reports on the new legionaries. He paused the flow of information across the three screens in front of him and activated the receiver.

‘Lord Corax, your presence at the command chamber is required,’ said Ephrenia. The primarch thought he could detect barely-suppressed laughter in her voice. ‘We have a situation that may need your intervention.’

‘Please be more specific,’ said Corax, reaching out to a mug of water balanced on the edge of his metal desk. He realised he had been cloistered in the study room for more than twelve hours.

‘We have detected two Imperial Fists vessels approaching Deliverance, lord,’ Ephrenia explained.

‘Report to me when you find out what they want,’ said the primarch. He took a gulp of water, savouring it as if it were fine wine. ‘The watch commander can surely handle this?’

‘Branne is on watch command, lord,’ said Ephrenia. Her smirk was almost audible. ‘The Imperial Fists vessels are under the command of Captain Noriz. The exchange is getting quite heated.’

Corax sighed, switched off the data screens and stood up.

‘Very well, I’ll be there soon,’ he said. ‘Make sure Branne doesn’t do something hot-headed, like opening fire.’

‘Yes, lord, I’ll do my best,’ said Ephrenia, trying not to laugh.

Running fingers through his thick hair, Corax stretched his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. It had been six days since gene-seed implantation had been completed on the first recruits and there was a stream of genetic data and physiological examination reports for him to digest if he wanted to take the project to its next stage. Whatever the reason for Noriz’s arrival, it was inopportune at best, and suspicious at worst. Was Dorn sending his man to keep an eye on the Raven Guard?

The primarch made his way to the conveyor and rose up through Ravenspire to the command chamber close to the pinnacle. As he entered, he could hear Captain Noriz’s voice over the vox. Branne was hunched over the communications console, a vox-link clasped in his gauntleted fist.

‘Your security protocol makes no sense, commander,’ Noriz was protesting. ‘I can see no benefit to such a delay.’

On the other side of the chamber, standing pointedly in front of the weapons armament panel, Ephrenia caught Corax’s eye. He walked over to her as Branne stabbed a finger into the reply switch.

‘You cannot enter Deliverance orbital space without prior authorisation, captain,’ said the commander. ‘Observe proper protocol and we will proceed.’

‘Commander Branne is demanding that the Imperial Fists leave orbit and request permission to approach,’ said the controller.

‘I have already explained the reason for not doing so,’ said Noriz. ‘You are compromising our mission here.’

‘Branne!’ snapped Corax. The commander spun around, obviously having not noticed the primarch’s arrival. ‘Explain.’

‘The Imperial Fists sent no hail after entering the system, lord,’ said Branne. ‘Our protocols dictate that they stand out from the vicinity of Kiavahr and request permission to approach. At the moment, Ravenspire is within range of their weapons.’

Corax crossed the room, forcing Branne to stand aside at the console. The primarch took up the transmitter.

‘Captain Noriz, this is Lord Corax,’ he said. ‘Why did you not declare your approach to Deliverance?’

‘As I told Commander Branne, Lord Corax, I wish knowledge of our presence here to be minimised,’ said Noriz after a slight delay. ‘A long-range hail would have announced our presence as surely as chorus of blaring trumpets. It is imperative that I speak with you. I have messages from Lord Dorn and the Sigillite.’

‘Commander Branne is correct,’ said Corax. ‘Please withdraw by one hundred thousand kilometres and prepare your ships to receive boarding parties. Commander Branne will meet you in person aboard your vessel to hear what you have to say. If he deems it necessary, he will then grant you authority to approach Deliverance and send a delegation to Ravenspire.’

There was a longer pause before Noriz replied.

‘As you wish, Lord Corax,’ said the Imperial Fists captain. ‘I take it that I should treat Commander Branne as your absolute authority?’

‘For certain,’ said Corax. ‘If you wish to keep a low profile, I suggest you retire out-orbit, to place Deliverance between your ships and Kiavahr. There will be no further long-range communication until Commander Branne has assessed the situation.’

‘Understood, Lord Corax.’

Corax turned to Branne and saw an expression of self-satisfaction, an expression that changed to one of contrition when the commander saw the anger in Corax’s eyes.

‘I might expect such behaviour from a lower officer, but you are a commander and you must set an example,’ Corax rasped. ‘You will be cordial and cooperative with Captain Noriz and extend him every assistance he requires.’

‘Aye, lord,’ said Branne, looking down at the decking. He raised his eyes for a brief moment before turning his gaze away again. ‘I admit that perhaps I was over-zealous in my application of procedure. In my defence, the Imperial Fists did breach our security and I was only telling them to do the same as you did.’

‘You forced me to support your stance, Branne,’ said Corax, voice edged with irritation. ‘I am not about to countermand the orders of one of my commanders in front of another Legion, but I do not agree with your response. Do not allow personal feelings to impede your duty again. I am returning to my chambers to continue my work. The next interruption I expect will be your full report on why the Imperial Fists have come here.’

‘Understood, lord,’ said Branne. He turned away and called to Controller Ephrenia. ‘Signal Alpha Dock to ready me a Thunderhawk.’

Corax watched the commander stride from the control room and felt a moment of worry. Something was eating at Branne, something between him and Agapito. The two of them had shown moments of ill-discipline since the return from Isstvan and their behaviour at Ravendelve had bordered on antipathy towards each other. Corax was determined to root out the cause, and if necessary he would find new commanders.

Despite his concern, Corax decided that, for the moment, it would wait. The gene-project was more pressing. When the next generation of Raven Guard was secure, the primarch would turn his full attention to the existing one. He was eager to move on to wider implantation, and chafed at the thought of waiting for the results of more tests. Within moments, his mind was full of thoughts on how to refine the new gene-tech, the problems with his commanders forgotten.

As the primarch made his way back to his chambers, he told himself to have patience. A moment of rashness now might ruin all of the hard work and achievements that had come before. Feeling calmer, he sat down at his desk and started the dataflow again.

THE INTERIOR OF the Wrathful Vanguardwas very different to the inside of a Raven Guard vessel. It resembled more closely a fortress than a starship, the walls layered with plates of bare metal etched with Legion mottoes and ferrocrete slabs carved with the sigils and devices of the Imperial Fists. Buttresses reinforced every corridor, doors were arch-shaped and made of heavily bolted wood and bulkheads were cross-barred with gilded girders.

Branne did not think it ostentatious – not like some of the vessels of the Emperor’s Children he had travelled on – but there was an aesthetic that he found artificial and pompous. Raised in whitewashed cell blocks, the Raven Guard preferred the functional over the ornamental, and even since liberation Deliverance was only sparsely furnished and decorated.

The commander followed Noriz along a central passageway to a heavy elevator. A squad of Raven Guard followed a little way behind and they in turn were tailed by ten warriors of the Imperial Fists. Branne had not remarked on this welcome, still smarting from Corax’s admonishment, and had allowed Noriz his prideful show of authority.

The conveyor descended with only a whine of electric motors, unlike the clanking, rattling elevators of Ravenspire. There was room enough for all of the legionaries, allowing the Raven Guard and Imperial Fists to stand a few metres separated from each other.

They could not have been more dissimilar: the sons of Corax in their black, patched-up armour and the warriors of Dorn resplendent in yellow and gleaming gold. The Imperial Fists stood to attention in a uniform line, bolters held at their waists; the Raven Guard had gathered in a clump, bolters slung on their belts, arms crossed or hands on hips.

‘How are things on Terra?’ Branne asked, feeling that he should break the stony silence.

‘The fortification continues,’ replied Noriz.

Branne waited, but there was no further comment forthcoming. He looked at the Imperial Fists.

‘Your legionaries are turned out well,’ he said, thinking of something complimentary to say. ‘They are a credit to the Legion.’

‘We were fortunate not to be involved in the debacle at Isstvan,’ said Noriz. He glanced at the Raven Guard. ‘It is understandable that after such a disaster certain standards must be compromised.’

Taking in a deep breath, Branne resisted the bait.

‘We’re ready to fight, despite our appearance,’ he said.

‘I know you are, commander,’ said Noriz. ‘It was not a condemnation of your preparedness or your ability. Your armourium has shown remarkable ingenuity in affecting such modifications.’

‘We adapt, as ever. Hide some salt for the gruel, as we say.’

‘An interesting motto,’ said Noriz. It was hard to tell his mood from the modulation of his armour’s external emitters, but Branne detected amusement. ‘I am not sure what it means, though.’

‘You weren’t born in a prison, obviously,’ said Branne.

‘No, I was not, commander.’ The conveyor shuddered to a stop and the doors slid open. Branne’s armour detected vacuum as air blew out of the elevator in a gust that tousled the lanyards hanging from Noriz’s shoulder pads. ‘I hope you now understand why I insisted on full armour.’

They stepped out into darkness, footfalls silent in the void, the light from the conveyor casting long shadows over a floor of unpainted metal.

‘The vacuum is a precaution only,’ Noriz continued as he led the way. Suit lamps automatically sprang into life from the group as they moved further into the chamber. Turning, Branne saw that the walls were some considerable distance away, thirty metres or more. ‘We wished the cargo to arrive in pristine condition.’

‘Cargo?’ said Branne. His question was answered as his suit lamp played over a figure a few metres ahead. He stopped suddenly, taken aback.

As the legionaries converged, several rows of armoured suits reflected back their lamps. The metal and ceramite were bare, the suits silver and dull grey. Lifeless masks gazed back at the commander as he turned left and right. There were several dozen sets of armour, each locked in place against a strut welded to the floor.

‘Mark VI,’ said Noriz. ‘The latest design from Mars.’

Branne said nothing as he approached the closest rank of empty armour. It looked instantly familiar, at first glance little different from the Mark IV armour he wore. On closer inspection, the Raven Guard commander could see the subtle differences in panel shape and bonding, the thicker material of the flexible joints, the solid greaves covering the knees. Most obvious was the bolt-reinforced left shoulder plate and the helmet design.

‘They still require a little further work, I’m afraid,’ said Noriz. ‘Lord Dorn wished them shipped out to you as soon as we were able. They’re artificer-made, pre-production. You’ll be the first Legion in the Imperium to be issued with Mark VI.’

‘A nice gesture,’ said Branne. He ran his hand over the studded shoulder pad. ‘We performed combat tests on the prototypes for two years, during the campaign through Scalland sector. I see they’ve solved the problem of the abdominal plating we reported.’

‘Most of the improvements your Legion suggested were implemented,’ said Noriz, almost wistfully. ‘Protection is no better than the Mark IV, but the internal systems are far more efficient. The external cabling you see is supplemented by back-ups within the armour plate itself without compromising defence or adding excessive weight. Auto-senses have also been improved. In particular, auditory and olfactory pick-ups are much more sensitive. You will, no doubt, be pleased to hear that the stealth capabilities of this suit exceed that of any other variant.’

Branne nodded. ‘You called it Mark VI. What happened to Mark V?’

Noriz pointed at the Raven Guard legionaries.

‘With full production not yet begun on Mars, these are the only suits available. Our companion transport has another fifteen hundred of them, on top of the five hundred we are carrying. In the absence of reliable Legion supply lines, the Mechanicum have designated all non-standard or stop-gap designs as Mark V. Many of the improvisations made by your armourium after the dropsite massacre are being passed on to other Legions in the absence of replacement parts for Mark IV. Your legionaries already have Mark V, commander.’

‘Why us?’ said Branne. ‘I’m thankful for the help, but this is a long way to come to pay us a favour.’

‘In recognition of your part in testing the suits, and because you need them most. You have been honoured. The Mark VI is to be known as the Corvus suit.’

Branne laughed and jabbed a finger towards the conical faceplate in front of him.

‘Because we’re the Raven Guard and the armour has a beak?’ he said. ‘Some honour!’

‘It is named after your lord, as thanks for the part you have played and the losses you suffered when testing the prototypes,’ said Noriz, addressing his words to all of the Raven Guard. ‘Lord Corax is insistent that the Raven Guard will take the fight to Horus’s forces. Lord Dorn sends these gifts to your Legion as a mark of support and to assist in that endeavour.’

‘You think we don’t deserve them?’ said Branne, picking up on the captain’s tone. ‘They would be better used by the Imperial Fists on Terra?’

‘On the contrary,’ said Noriz. ‘If I were to put desire before duty, I would like just as much as you to strike back at the rebels. As it is, I must deliver this cargo and return to the Legion.’

Silence followed the captain’s remarks. He gestured for the group to return to the conveyor. Branne considered the Imperial Fist’s words, surprised by them. The doors to the elevator shut behind them and air hissed into the compartment. With a jolt, the conveyor began to ascend.

‘It must have taken quite a bit of effort to get to Deliverance,’ said Branne. ‘What with the warp storms and everything else.’

‘Navigation continues to be very difficult, yes,’ said Noriz. ‘In fact, the Seventh Legion fleet which Lord Dorn originally dispatched to–’

‘So it’s going to be a long journey back for you.’

‘It is, commander. I sense you are trying to imply something, but I do not know what it is.’

‘How many legionaries do you have with you?’ asked Branne, looking at the Imperial Fists squad.

‘One hundred and fifty,’ said Noriz. ‘I do not see how that would be relevant to our journey time.’

‘In your assessment, how many of your Legion are defending Terra?’

‘When I left, there were more than forty thousand Imperial Fists stationed at the palace,’ said Noriz. He grunted. ‘I think I understand your meaning, commander. One hundred and fifty legionaries would be a far more significant addition, relatively, to your force of a few thousand.’

‘I would have said that we need you more than Lord Dorn at the moment, but it comes to the same place,’ said Branne. ‘Communication is difficult though. We haven’t had more than a few scraps from Terra since the storms started. The astropaths are trying hard, but they can’t break through the disturbance. You won’t be able to confirm a change of orders from your Legion command.’

‘I know that you think we Imperial Fists are intractable, commander, but we do not abhor initiative as you suggest.’ Noriz extended his hand. ‘If Lord Corax agrees, I would be honoured to suborn my command to the Raven Guard for the moment.’

Branne looked down at the proffered hand and then took it in a firm grip.

‘Glad you agree, captain,’ said Branne. ‘Happily for you, you’ll be under the direction of Commander Agapito, not me.’

‘Despite our early issues and personal differences, Commander Branne, I would have no problem serving under you. Against overwhelming opposition, you rescued Lord Corax and the remains of your Legion from Isstvan. That is a feat worthy of respect and praise. You are a Hero of the Imperium, commander.’

‘I am?’ laughed Branne. There were chuckles from the other legionaries, both Raven Guard and Imperial Fists. Since Isstvan, the commander had felt as if he had failed. The most important battle in the Legion’s history and he missed it. He and his warriors had been apart from the others, isolated from the bond that had brought the rest of the Legion together, Terrans and those of Deliverance. To hear Noriz speak of his actions in such terms allowed him for the first time to think differently about the matter. ‘If that makes me a Hero of the Imperium, we’ll have to come up with a new title for whoever kills Horus.’

‘It’ll be Russ,’ said one of Branne’s honour guard. ‘Just you wait. Once the Space Wolves get involved, this’ll be over quick.’

‘Maybe we’ll get to him first,’ said another.

‘Sanguinius,’ said Noriz, silencing the debate. ‘The Sons of Fenris are far away, still likely dealing with the aftermath of Prospero. As much as I admire your enthusiasm, the Raven Guard cannot match the might of the Luna Wolves. No, when the Blood Angels hear of this treachery, there’ll be no stopping Sanguinius. Lord Dorn calls him the Angel of Death, and I can’t imagine Fulgrim, Perturabo, Lorgar or any of the others wanting to step between Horus and the Angel’s vengeance. It’ll be Sanguinius, mark my words.’

Branne reached into his belt and pulled out a ring with two large keys on it. They were dull, much scratched and slightly bent, the wear of decades plain to see.