Текст книги "Deliverance Lost"

Автор книги: Гэв Торп

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

‘It will be too late,’ said Corax. ‘We will strike quickly enough that there will be no time for our enemies to prepare. We will begin with the implantation of the remaining recruits at Ravendelve as soon as possible. Branne will organise the mass induction of candidates and we will make our final preparations for the assault on Narsis.’

‘What about weapons and armour?’ said Solaro. ‘At the moment, we can make Raptors faster than we can manufacture Mark VI suits.’

‘I already have a manufactorum on Kiavahr stepping up production based on the designs brought to us by Captain Noriz,’ answered the primarch. ‘As for weapons, we have stockpiles worthy of a Legion that was once eighty thousand strong. A few thousand bolters are not an issue, despite the losses on Isstvan.’

‘Transportation?’ said Agapito, with the sigh of a man who knew he had lost a battle. ‘The Avengerand surviving ships cannot carry that many into battle.’

‘We will requisition transports from wherever we can,’ said Corax. ‘We don’t need dedicated assault ships, as long as they can launch Thunderhawks and Stormbirds. Whatever problems you foresee, we will overcome them. The Raven Guard will be prepared to attack Narsis within twenty-five days. I have waited long enough, and I can wait no longer. The fight back against the traitors has already begun, it is time to accept that and strike a blow that will make them nervous.’

‘Aye, lord,’ said Agapito, his reply echoed by the other commanders. ‘It will be as you command.’

FROM A VANTAGE point in the irradiated ruins surrounding Ravendelve, Omegon looked at the fortified facility through the magnification of his auto-senses. Contact Three had been able to transmit from Deliverance, warning of a step-up in activity at the Raptor base. Corax was showing no nerves and was plunging headlong into the implementation of his plan, judging by the number of vehicles and shuttles that had been coming and going over the last few days. Mechanicum and Raven Guard attendants in rad-suits had been extending the complex with prefabricated buildings, almost doubling its size.

He considered his options, none of them with any particular favour. The most obvious course of action would be to signal his operatives to destroy the gene-works now, before the Raptors could be increased in size. That almost felt like a failure to the primarch, when his prize was so close at hand.

The insurgents were nearly ready to attack Ravendelve, an army of several thousand. Fifty Alpha Legionnaires were also only three days away, aboard the Betahiding out in the dust clouds beyond Kiavahr. They would be the spearhead of any assault. It was a balancing act. If he committed too early, without the full involvement of the rebels, his warriors would be cut down to no effect. If he waited too long, the Raptors’ ever-increasing numbers would prove insurmountable.

His only hope lay in a swift, decisive strike to secure the gene-tech and then destroy what remained. He needed time, just ten more days, and everything would be in place to see that plan come to fruition.

The scuff of boots on rubble caused the primarch to turn, his bolter ready. A lean, robed figure picked his way through the debris below: Magos Unithrax. It disturbed Omegon that the tech-priest needed no protection against the radiation and pollutants in the air. Looking closer, he saw Unithrax’s sallow face had a half-decayed appearance, only the metal implants holding together the flesh beneath his hood.

‘I have a solution for you,’ said the magos. He dipped a withered hand into his robe and pulled out a canister the size of a grenade. ‘A genetic virus, tailored with the information provided by your operatives. If one of your agents can introduce this to the gene-template being used by the Raven Guard, it will halt their expansion.’

Omegon dropped down to the ground, rubble grinding to powder beneath his weight. He took the canister from Unithrax and looked at it. It hummed softly with a small stasis field, but otherwise looked like a rations canteen used by the Raven Guard.

‘What will it do, exactly?’ asked the primarch. ‘A polluted gene-seed is of no use to us.’

‘Exactly?’ said the magos. He coughed uncomfortably and looked away. ‘I cannot say exactly what the effects will be, though it will be severe. It will be a simple matter to extricate the virus from the gene-strands again once we have them in our possession.’

‘It is a blatant move and will raise the suspicions of Corax,’ said Omegon, tossing the canister from hand to hand. ‘They have already increased security at Ravendelve considerably. I cannot afford for them to lock down the whole facility.’

‘They will suspect themselves first,’ said Unithrax. ‘The virus will mutate the gene-seed from within and it will appear to be an unforeseen side-effect of the implantation process. Unless they specifically look for the viral contagion they will find nothing that cannot be explained by a random but explainable mutation of the genetic material.’

‘I will consider it,’ said Omegon. ‘What will my agent have to do?’

Unithrax produced a small crystal sliver, no larger than a fingernail.

‘This data-chip contains the necessary instructions,’ he said. ‘Pass it along to your operative with the virus container and he will be able to access the data through any terminal in Ravendelve. You should also tell him to destroy both the crystal and the canister on completion of the task.’

‘Of course he’ll destroy it, we are not amateurs,’ said Omegon. He looked at the container again and held out his hand for the data-chip. He slipped both into a pouch at his belt and fastened it tight. ‘How proceeds the work of the Order of the Dragon? Are they in position to act when I give the word?’

‘We are ready,’ said Unithrax. ‘Our supporters have made contact with sympathisers amongst the Kiavahr hierarchy. When your guild rabble is in a position to reveal themselves, we will put in motion our part of the agreement.’

‘The guilds need only a little more encouragement and then they will do as I please,’ said Omegon. He turned and looked out of a mangled window at the silhouette of Ravendelve and rested a hand on the pouch containing the gene-virus.

He would have it retrieved by his contact. It would not be long now.

FOURTEEN

Diversion

A Legionary is Born

The Poison Seed

THE CORRIDORS OF Ravendelve were filled with the din of blaring sirens. Alpharius was in the makeshift armourium, running through maintenance drills with several squads of Raptors.

‘Attack warning, form up in the main hall!’ he snapped, lifting his own helm from a bench behind him.

‘Is this part of the training, sergeant?’ asked one of the Raptors as they filed out of the room.

‘No, this is real,’ Alpharius replied, knowing that no exercise had been planned for that day. The attack warning could only signal a genuine threat to Ravendelve, and he knew exactly what it meant.

While the other warriors in the facility converged on the mustering area, Alpharius took a detour, passing by his squad’s dormitory. It was empty, his legionaries having already answered the call to arms. He crouched beside his bed and pulled out a box of battered metal from underneath it. With a glance towards the door, he opened the lid and sorted through the items within: bolter magazines, oils, paints, small replacement parts for his armour, a few fangs and other trophies belonging to the warrior he was imitating and a collection of ration packs and canisters. He rummaged through the last of these until his suit detected the minute vibrations of the stasis field holding the gene-virus. Placing this in his belt, he closed the box and pushed it back under the bunk with his foot.

He had already memorised the instructions for its introduction to the gene-template, and destroyed the data-crystal in Ravendelve’s incinerator. He brought to mind this information as he broke into a run, unslinging his bolter from his waist as he entered the main hall. Branne was on the stage and directed a scowl towards Alpharius, noticing his tardiness. Alpharius raised a hand in apology as he fell in with the rest of his squad.

‘As I was saying,’ Branne said. ‘Perimeter sensors have detected a large, unidentified movement out in sectors three and five. A patrol has been despatched. Armourium crews to man the defence turrets. Squads one through four are to embark on the Rhinos in the armourium and provide rapid response. Squads five through twelve will provide sweeps to the remaining perimeter. All other squads, get yourselves at Delta and Gamma gates and make ready for an extended counter-offensive.’

Branne stopped and cocked his head to one side as the buzz of a communication could be heard from his receiver. He nodded to himself.

‘Understood, Patrol One,’ he said, looking at the assembled Raptors. ‘We have confirmed the presence of at least one hundred anti-Imperial insurgents at the perimeter. They appear to be massing for an attack around the rail depot and ruins of the counting house. Squad orders will be forthcoming. You are warriors of the Raven Guard. Fight for the Emperor and Corax!’

‘The Emperor and Corax!’ Alpharius shouted the refrain with the others, banging a fist against his chestplate in salute to his commander.

Omegon’s timing of the diversionary attack had been perfect. Alpharius and his squad were on the armourium rotation, responsible for manning the defence turrets and securing Ravendelve. Alpharius ordered his squad to their assigned duties as the rest of the Raptors thundered from the main hall, heading to their respective positions.

‘Dieta, I want you to do a check of the new buildings,’ he told one of his legionaries. ‘There may have been dissidents amongst the work crews. Who can say what they’ve left behind.’

‘We conducted a thorough security sweep of all buildings after they left, sergeant,’ protested Dieta, obviously dismayed by the appointment of such a laborious and seemingly pointless duty.

‘Take Calden with you,’ said Alpharius, pointing to another legionary.

‘I’m supposed to secure the infirmary,’ said Dieta.

‘I’ll handle that, just get moving,’ snapped Alpharius. The two Raven Guard responded with smart salutes and set off at a run.

Alpharius headed directly for the gene-bank located in the infirmary wing. When he arrived he found several novitiates lying on the bunks, none of them older than ten years Terran standard, Vincente Sixx and Magos Orlandriaz tending to them. A number of robed orderlies stood close at hand with trays of phials and various surgical apparatus.

‘We have to clear this area,’ said Alpharius.

‘Impossible,’ replied Sixx. ‘These boys have just been given the priming agent for implantation. We cannot move them now, and we have to proceed with the gene-seed introduction before they go into cellular shock.’

‘If it must be so,’ said Alpharius, realising that the Apothecary and tech-priest would be too busy with the implantation to pay him much attention. ‘Do you have the gene-seed?’

‘Yes,’ said Sixx. ‘We have everything to start the procedure.’

‘Good, then I’ll lock down central storage,’ said Alpharius.

‘You don’t have access,’ said Sixx. ‘I will come with you. Orlandriaz can begin without me.’

Alpharius was taken aback by the offer and had to think quickly.

‘The codes will be changed the moment lockdown is over,’ he said, affecting a nonchalant disposition. ‘No risk to security protocol, and there’s no point in me dragging you away from this important stage of the process.’

‘He is correct,’ said Orlandriaz. ‘I suspect the threat to the facility is minimal. Let us not waste time with this distraction.’

Sixx nodded and pulled a chain from around his neck, on which hung a two-tined digital spike. He tossed the necklace to Alpharius, who caught it easily.

‘Check none of my attendants are in there before you lock down,’ said the Apothecary, turning back to the closest bunk. ‘Command override is peta-orpheus-epsilon.’

‘My thanks,’ said Alpharius, heading through the ward at a brisk pace. The airtight door cycled opened at his approach, allowing him to pass from the main infirmary into the inner chambers.

He quickly got his bearings from the description he had been passed, locating the sealed stasis cell in which the gene-template would be located. He pushed the digi-key into the lock of the main door and spoke the override code. Bolts hammered into place with a loud clang, securing him against discovery.

Working quickly, he pulled out a cipher-breaker from his belt; an ingenious piece of Alpha Legion-devised kit that he had kept hidden since his infiltration had begun. Plugging Sixx’s digi-key into one of the ports on the reader, he activated the code sequence, unlocking all of the cipher signals held within the sliver of metal.

A tiny readout on the side of the cipher-breaker showed him what he needed to know and he took the digi-key to the stasis vault. Inserting the key brought up a hololithic display. Counting off the code from the reader, he entered the required sequence. A hiss of escaping air announced his success and the door to the sealed chamber opened out on two wheezing pistons.

Inside, a cylinder about half his height stood at the centre of a mass of coiled cables, wisps of hyper-chilled air drifting around it. Again, the lock on the storage cylinder gave way to the digi-key. A light flickered into life within, revealing a glassite tube no bigger than a bolter round, hanging in the air between two suspensor units. Inside, in a suspension of pale blue fluid, floated a single thread of genetic material, almost invisible to Alpharius’s eyes.

He looked at it for a few seconds, amazed that such power could be contained within something so miniscule. Life, superior transhuman life, was held in that molecule-thin sliver of material. The ability to create legions of unstoppable warriors floated just in front of him. All he had to do was dash that glassite tube on the floor, and the doom of the Raven Guard would be sealed. Yet the primarch had a far grander purpose. The same secret formula would make the Alpha Legion an unstoppable force. Captivated by the thought, Alpharius realised that he had a choice. What he did next might well decide the outcome of Horus’s war against the Emperor, could decide the fate of the entire galaxy.

Did Horus deserve such a gift? What grievance against the Emperor could be so vast that such a war was needed to settle it? Alpharius knew that there were greater forces than him at play in this rebellion, but at that moment none of them held the power he did.

He laughed quietly at himself, embarrassed by his grandiose thoughts. The primarch had made it clear that the destiny of the Alpha Legion lay alongside Horus’s, for the good of the Legion and all of mankind. Alpharius knew his primarch would not make such a statement unless he knew for certain that it was true.

Dismissing his doubts, Alpharius plucked the capsule from the grip of the suspensors and turned, looking for the gene-coder as he had been instructed. He located it on one of the work benches, a large machine with several receptacles the same size as the gene-tube, hooked up to a bank of analysing engines.

He switched on the gene-coder and placed the template material into one of the apertures. Punching in the command sequence he had learned, he activated the coding mechanism. As the machine purred into life, he took the virus container from his belt and opened it up. Inside was a near-identical glassite phial. He made the mistake of looking at the contents. The gaseous mixture inside writhed with a life of its own, changing colour and contorting madly, sliding against the phial as if trying to escape. For some reason it reminded him of the descriptions of the warp he had heard from Navigators: ever-shifting and restless.

Swallowing his revulsion, he placed the virus into another receiving pod and closed the lid.

His fingers tapped away at the keypad, allowing the gene-template and viral solution to mix inside the coding machine. He stopped as he felt a tremor shaking Ravendelve: the defence turrets were opening fire. Alpharius had to move swiftly. The time he had taken would either be noticed by Sixx or one of the turret crews, or the attack put in motion by the primarch would soon be hurled back and the lockdown would be ended.

He finished the input sequence and waited a few seconds while machinery whirred in the depths of the gene-coder. An alert pinged the completion of the task and the phial casket opened with a hiss.

He retraced his steps, returning the gene-template to its stasis chamber and sealing the door. Using the cipher-breaker, Alpharius entered the data logs and deleted the entries reporting his interference. It was not as secure as a complete wipe, but he did not have time for such a precaution. With implantation reaching the level it had, it would take a deep auditing scan to pick up on the anomaly, during which the system would have to be shut down. Such an event was unlikely, given Corax’s determination to build up the strength of the Raptors as fast as possible.

With everything back where it should be, Alpharius exited the central chamber. Sixx and the tech-priest were engrossed in their labours, stooping over one of the implant recipients. Not drawing any attention to himself, Alpharius left the digi-key on a shelf and slipped out.

Once in the corridor he broke into a run, heading for Turret Three where he was supposed to be guiding the defence gunnery.

THE WHEEZE OF the autolung and staccato rattle of the monitor needles was oddly soothing. Navar Hef felt disassociated from his body, a state induced by a cocktail of preparation agents and hypnotic suggestion. He flitted between wakefulness and shallow sleep, barely aware of what was happening, the fleeting moments of lucidity serving to reassure him that Vincente Sixx and his attendants were never far away, constantly observing his progress.

There was pain, but his trance-like state allowed him to siphon the sensation to a part of his mind where it did not impact his thoughts. Navar’s body felt as if it was burning, within and without, yet he remained icy cold in his mind.

Organs were moving and growing, bones were thickening and lengthening, cells were duplicating and mutating. He dreamed he was a shadowmoth, hanging in its chrysalis from a gantry in one of the prison wings. Navar’s body was in flux, a semi-solid construct transforming from the physique of a human youth to the transhuman physiology of a legionary.

Time passed without meaning. Occasionally Navar felt a surge of energy or agony, flares of feeling from limbs or innards undergoing implantation. Such sensations were confined to his mind, his body fixed in a paralysis that prevented screams and laughter. The lights hanging from cables above dimmed to darkness or became blindingly bright, sensed through his closed eyelids. He wondered if this marked the passing of the day and night or simply reactions to the changes in his body.

More than anything, when he experienced any emotion, Navar felt joy, a constant ecstatic feeling of becoming his true self.

Locked in his thoughts, the Raptor-to-be formed a picture of himself as he was and as he would be. He could vaguely sense the huge increase in his mass, his chest and arms and legs becoming heavily muscled. At some point he realised there was a different rhythm to his heartbeat, the familiar pulsing in his throat accompanied by a secondary beat, more rapid but weaker. He breathed and tasted the air in a way he had never tasted it before. Sweat and antiseptic, ozone and brushed metal lingered on his enhanced tongue and in his improved olfactory sensors.

Even his brain was changing. As if from a distance, he observed new structures and pathways forming in the grey matter of his thoughts. He came to realise that there were no drugs in his system any longer. His fugue state was being maintained from within by an interaction of his newly grown catalapsean node and sus-an membrane.

It was then that he knew the process was complete. With an effort of will, Navar forced himself from his semi-sleep, gaining clarity of thought and sense. The ward surrounded him in sharp focus: the scuff of the attendants’ feet, the whine of Magos Orlandriaz’s servitors, the smell of blood and adrenaline, the flickering of the light fittings.

He sat up, suddenly aware that he was ravenously hungry. Despite being intravenously fed proteins and nutrients throughout the implantation, his body had devoured its store of fat to fuel his massive growth.

Navar chuckled as he realised his feet were at the end of the bed. When he had lain down just a few days ago, they had barely reached two-thirds the length of the sheet. He lifted his right hand and formed an immense fist, knuckles flexing underneath hardened skin. Bunching the muscles in his arm, he marvelled at their power and felt the urge to crush something in his grip.

‘You must move to the rehabilitation room,’ said an orderly, all but her eyes hidden under hood and behind face mask. Navar could see the flecks of grey in the blue of her irises, and every tiny blood vessel in the whites. He saw his reflection in her pupils, a naked giant lying on bloodstained sheets. Her breath carried wisps of caroumal, a sugar-rich supplement used by the Raven Guard and their serfs to fuel short bursts of energetic activity. The bags under her eyes and lines around her brow offered testament to her fatigue.

‘Please, follow me to the rehabilitation room,’ she said, taking Navar’s wrist. He could detect the minute inflections in her voice, the weariness that caused looseness in her larynx. It seemed to Navar that she almost slurred her words, whereas a normal man would have just heard the same familiar tones.

He swung his legs from the bunk, and stood up. There was another moment of delight as he towered over the attendant. He saw his shadow engulfing her and was filled with a sense of mastery. She was not impressed, having dealt with dozens of Raptors in recent days. Without further word, the attendant turned and walked towards a set of double doors with glass windows. Navar heard the pad of her slippered feet and swish of her medical robe as loud as heavy boots and piston-driven armour.

Something caught in Navar’s throat and he coughed. The attendant pointed to a metal bucket on a hook beside the door. An awful stench rose from it.

‘You’ll need to expel some dead tissue from your lungs,’ said the attendant.

Navar hawked and spat a thick clot into the bucket. He took a deep breath and found no other obstruction. The attendant pushed open one of the doors, revealing rows of benches and loose robes. There were several dozen Raptors cleansing their bodies from long troughs, sloughing away blood clots and thick sweaty residue.

Several turned and grinned at Navar, and he smiled in return. If he understood correctly, these would be his battle-brothers within a matter of days, fully grown and combat-ready.

‘Thank you,’ he said to the attendant, and stepped through the door to join the rest of the Raptors.

THE EMPTY FUEL tank ruptured from the impact of Omegon’s fist, a hollow clang resounding around the deserted freight terminal on the outskirts of Nairhub, hidden in the rad-wastes of Kiavahr. With a snarl, Omegon looked to the heavens through the gaps in the metal sheets of the roof; skeletal craneworks jutted up into the cloudy red sky, around them chains hanging from scaffolding and walkways like creepers of an industrial jungle. Pulling his gauntleted hand from the ragged hole he had made in the steel drum, the Alpha Legion’s primarch directed his murderous glare to Magos Unithrax.

‘Do you have an explanation?’ Omegon demanded. He rested one hand on the hilt of his chainsword, and curled the fingers of the other around the grip of the bolter slung at his hip. ‘Another batch of Raptors has undergone transformation without a hitch, and no hint of your virus.’

‘Your operative must have made an error when he attempted to introduce it to the gene-template,’ said Unithrax, meeting the primarch’s anger with a calm, cold stare. ‘Perhaps he compromised the integrity of the viral code.’

‘He followed your instructions precisely,’ Omegon replied. ‘My operative is not at fault.’

‘The viral agent will have mutated the gene-seed if the procedure has been correctly implemented,’ the magos insisted, assured of the truth of what he said.

‘This is not satisfactory,’ said Omegon, calming himself so that he could think clearly. Whoever was to blame could be dealt with later. He had to devise a secondary plan, and quickly. ‘Is it possible the virus is somehow still dormant? What sort of safeguards did you engineer into it to ensure it would not spread out of control and become infectious?’

‘The virus is a common variety, harmless on its own,’ said Unithrax. He shrugged, and a third arm, mechanical in nature, momentarily appeared from under his robes in imitation of the gesture. ‘It is merely a vehicle to introduce the corruptive element.’

‘And what corruptive element have you used?’ said Omegon. ‘Does it need time to activate?’

‘It is warp-based in origin, the stuff of the immaterial rendered into solid form,’ the magos said quietly.

‘Warp tech? It’s notoriously fickle,’ snapped Omegon. ‘Why would you use such a thing?’

‘Not so much warp technology as something more primordial, primarch,’ said Unithrax. ‘The viral agent uses modified daemon blood.’

‘What?’ Omegon snarled the question as he snatched hold of the tech-priest’s robe. ‘You exposed my operative to the taint of Chaos?’

‘A near-synthetic compound utilising trace amounts,’ said Unithrax, unperturbed by the primarch’s outburst. ‘Daemons do not have blood, as such, it is merely a useful euphemism. It contains minimal daemonic power in itself, but its presence is a powerful mutagen. If it was correctly mixed with the gene-template, there will be corruption.’

‘Well, it has not worked,’ said Omegon. He released his hold and began to pace, and then stopped himself, annoyed by the display of agitation. Reaching a decision, he fixed Unithrax with a hard stare.

‘The Order of the Dragon is ready to move?’ said the primarch.

‘Give us the word and we will act,’ replied Unithrax.

‘Good,’ said Omegon. ‘We have delayed long enough; it is time to begin the final phase of the project. I will organise a little testing skirmish for our Raven Guard friends while you begin the coup. Corax will have his eye fixed on Ravendelve and he will not see your preparations until it is too late.’

‘Very well, primarch,’ said the magos. ‘Unless I receive a signal from you, we will make our move at the temple council in three days’ time.

‘Be sure that you do,’ said Omegon. ‘The Seventh and Nineteenth Legion vessels are still at high anchor close to the Lycaeus moon. I will bring the Betastealthing into closer orbit and have my warriors shuttled down, if you can guarantee the protection and secrecy of the agreed landing site.’

‘The Starfall docks belong to the Order of the Dragon. Your troops will arrive without remark or record.’

Omegon dismissed the magos with a wave of the hand, and equally dismissed him from his thoughts. The guilds would not move until they had seen some solid sign of the support of Horus, which would be given to them when the Order of the Dragon turned their weapons on the Mechanicum. Until then, Omegon would have to find some smaller force to attract Corax’s attention and increase the security measures at Ravendelve; measures that he would need to cover the involvement of his legionnaires.

He had the ideal candidate, someone whose loyalty had been assured from the earliest days of the revolution, a man who would not hesitate to lay down the lives of his followers to protect his own. Omegon set up his cipher-net communications equipment and established a signal. A few minutes passed before a connection was made.

‘Greetings, Councillor Effrit. This is Armand Eloqi.’

THE CHEM-CLOUDS WERE thicker than anything Alpharius had seen before, causing him to wonder if the insurgents had some control over their formation. It seemed too convenient that a thick swathe of noxious vapours had swept over Ravendelve only hours before their attack.

Along with the rest of his squad, he stood at the western rampart, looking for targets. Residual fallout was playing havoc with his auto-senses, no matter which spectrum filter he used. Now and then, he or one of the other squad members unleashed a bolt-round or two into the cloud mass, spying a swirl that might betray enemy movement, or aiming at darker patches in the fog.

To his right, Turret Four pounded out a steady stream of macro-cannon shells, the buildings in the distance blazing with detonations that set alight gas pockets and carved fifty metre-wide craters in the heaped rubble. Secondary emplacements roared with heavy bolters and chaingun fire, churning through the thick mist but hitting little.

‘No aerial support available,’ came Commander Branne’s voice over the vox-net. Alpharius was not surprised in the least. Without Thunderhawks or Stormbirds to fly recon, the Raven Guard would be forced to patrol on foot or in Rhinos, exposing themselves to ambush. For a Legion that prided itself on strategic flexibility and the mobility of force, they had been neatly trapped in Ravendelve by the initial attack.

Leaning over the rampart, Alpharius could see the piles of bodies from the first wave: dozens of mangled corpses left by the Raven Guard fusillade. If this was Omegon’s attack to secure Ravendelve, it was very poor. Alpharius could not believe that the long preparations of his primarch would lead to something so desultory, but he had received no instructions. All he could do was stand on the wall and continue to play his part as a loyal Raven Guard legionary. To do anything else would expose his secret without reason.

‘South gate opening, direct fire to cover column,’ said Branne.

Under the sergeant’s orders, Alpharius and the squad moved closer to Turret Four, to set up a fire position covering the blind spot beneath the high tower. There was nothing to see, no targets to fire at. There was sporadic las-fire in the distance though, bursts of energy bolts leaving fiery trails through the contaminated fog. The insurgents had certainly not abandoned their attack.