Текст книги "Deliverance Lost"

Автор книги: Гэв Торп

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

SIX

A Guest of the Emperor

Hall of Victories

Omegon Prepares

IN CONTRAST TO the confinement of his honour guard, Corax was quartered in some comfort and opulence, given a villa-like suite of chambers that overlooked a vast underground lake. Lit from below the water’s surface by powerful lights, the stalactite-clustered ceiling glittered with crystal deposits that glinted in the dappling glow from the waters beneath. The rooms were lavishly furnished with dark wood and gilded furniture, hanging tapestries and deep carpets. From the ceilings hung chandeliers with real candles, something of a novelty to the primarch who had been raised under the dim glow of lumen strips.

The fact that the chambers were scaled to the height and bulk of a primarch was something of a pleasant surprise. It occurred to Corax that primarch-appointed quarters should not have been a shock, given that he was on Terra. He wondered briefly if they had been intended as guest quarters, or something more permanent once the Great Crusade had been finished. His brothers had sometimes quarrelled about what would happen when the last planet was conquered and the Emperor’s dream made a reality, but Corax had been more than content to allow others to take over the burden of administering the Imperium in the wake of the Legiones Astartes. He was a commander, not a governor, and if he had no more battles to fight, he could have happily spent his remaining years, however many hundreds or perhaps thousands that might be, in comfortable retirement; perhaps compiling a treatise on the political lessons he had learned from his mentors on Lycaeus.

It was quite literally a world away from his quarters on Deliverance, which were by necessity rather cramped and functional. Not that luxury had ever been a consideration of the primarch. His home had always been a battlefield, a ship’s deck or the rooms of a command centre.

Once Malcador had taken his leave, Corax had been left alone, with a handful of Custodians on hand to act as guides and guards; and the small company of servants who had seemed to spring into existence as Corax had moved from room to room, each more than happy to see to the wants and needs of their primarch guest. For the first time since he had awoken in the dark cellar of Lycaeus, Corax felt as if he was in a place intended for him. The humans that attended him were dwarfed by their surroundings, diminutive figures let free to roam in the house of a giant, but seemed accustomed to the strangeness of the household in which they served.

For a short time, the primarch tried to relax, though his ribs were sore and the lacerations on his back plagued him with spasms of pain. Even on the long voyage to Terra he had not allowed himself time to rest, to allow his body to recover. The constant activity and Corax’s unsettled mood had prevented any meaningful recuperation. In a way, the injuries Corax felt were a reminder to him of what had happened, making real an event that sometimes seemed to have been a nightmare. Every twinge of torn muscle and stab of ripped flesh was a physical companion to the torments of his thoughts, a memorial of the tens of thousands that would never return to Deliverance.

The novelty of the environment wore off as lights were dimmed in an approximation of night. Agitated by what he had heard from Dorn and Malcador, Corax was full of energy and had no desire to sleep. At his request, a writing tablet was brought to the primarch and he started to make notes of everything he had seen since he and the other Legions had arrived to bring Horus to justice for his actions at Isstvan III.

At first his words were functional, listing the dispositions of the different Legions, their agreed strategy and the intelligence reports concerning the Sons of Horus. He remembered in exact detail the initial fleet manoeuvres performed to encircle the ships of the Warmaster, even as drop-pods, Hawkwings, Thunderhawks and Stormbirds were readied for the assault on the planet below. At the time nothing had seemed amiss, but on reflection Corax could see the plots of his treacherous brethren already being set in motion.

The integration of the Legions had seemed a wise move given the circumstances, a united front against the perfidy of Horus and his legionaries. In retrospect, it had allowed the traitors close, their battle-barges and cruisers alongside those of the Salamanders, Iron Hands and Raven Guard.

Ferrus Manus had led the attack against the reasoning of Corax and the strategy devised by Dorn, determined that the traitors would be brought down. Perhaps he had been goaded into it by some quiet word from Fulgrim or Lorgar. They would never know, as the Gorgon had been slain on Isstvan V. That the second wave was composed entirely of those who had sworn allegiance to Horus was the greatest machination, an attack against which the loyalists could muster no defence.

As he wrote, Corax’s account gradually grew more personal. It was impossible to separate himself from the bald facts of what had happened. His fingers flew over the screen of the writing pad, charting his feelings of horror and disgust as the Iron Warriors and Word Bearers had opened fire from the hills overlooking the Urgall Depression. He could not help but recall his own burning rage as his claws had scythed through the traitors, every sweep of his weapons accompanied by a surge of anger.

He stopped as his memories brought him to Lorgar.

How could he find the words to describe the loathing he had felt for his brother? And if he found the words for that, how would he then explain his feelings when the Night Haunter, Konrad Curze, had stopped Corax’s lightning claw milliseconds from Lorgar’s throat?

The servants were bustling again, and hearing their scattered conversation, the primarch realised that the night had already passed and they were preparing a breakfast for him. He scanned the last few paragraphs he had written, amazed by the vitriol let free from his thoughts. He considered deleting the whole document, expunging his memories at a stroke, but resisted. As painful as it was, he had to carry on.

He described his encounter with Lorgar and Curze in a few brief lines, reverting to the perfunctory style with which he had started, swiftly moving on to his withdrawal to a nearby Thunderhawk; a withdrawal that had been cut short by enemy fire, bringing the craft down only a few kilometres from the massacre.

The account came easily again, the turmoil in his thoughts subsiding as he recounted the gathering of the Raven Guard and the retreat into the mountains, striking back at the traitors when they could, fading into the shadows of the caves and valleys when the enemy came with too much strength.

He finished with a terse telling of Branne’s arrival as it had been relayed to him by the commander, and the extraction from Isstvan. Corax was sure he had not heard the whole of the story. For Branne to have disobeyed his orders and left Deliverance had been a bold move. Also the Therion, Praefector Valerius, was involved somehow. That part of the story did not yet make sense, and Corax resolved to find out the truth behind it when he returned to the Avenger.

He took the tablet with him as he moved to the feasting chamber, compiling and annotating tables of warships and other forces he had documented during the entire campaign. As he wolfed down the food, barely registering its taste or texture, Corax added an appendix detailing the enemy forces and tactics he had seen on Isstvan, and a few more notes regarding the fleet movements observed as they had fled the star system.

His account complete, he sealed the file and passed it to one of the attendants, commanding that it be taken to Malcador. The Sigillite would ensure that the information was passed on to Dorn and any others that would find it of benefit.

Writing down his experiences on Isstvan had not brought any sense of satisfaction or release. There were still so many unanswered questions, Corax could not begin to articulate them. Again and again he was left with a sense of loss and emptiness, not knowing what had turned his brothers against the Emperor.

Seeking peace and distraction, the primarch left the chambers and walked out onto the balcony overlooking the inner sea. He put aside all of the thoughts crowding into his head and tried to focus only on the ever-shifting play of light and the constant gurgle and ripple of water.

After spending some time marvelling at the beauty of the lake cavern and taking a few minutes to explore his immediate surroundings, the primarch chose to rove further afield. There were several other self-contained habitats in the vicinity, facing onto a circular plaza decorated with an abstract mosaic. All of the other residences looked empty at the moment. Corax counted twenty of them, a number that was surely not coincidence. That answered the question of how long ago they had been built, for surely a more recent construction would have numbered only eighteen.

From outside there was no way of telling one apartment suite from the other, and Corax quickly grew bored of trying to guess who might have been housed behind which doors. He was about to summon the elevator situated in a grand column at the central plaza when one of the residence servants came hurrying out.

‘Lord Corax, there is a message for you!’ The primarch turned back to see a woman of middle years running across the plaza. ‘Lord Dorn has returned and wishes to meet with you and Malcador.’

At that moment a chime sounded from the elevator and a panel in the marble-like pillar slid open to reveal a captain in the livery of the Imperial Fists.

‘That would be your guide, Lord Corax,’ said the servant. ‘Sorry for the delay in finding you.’

‘No matter,’ said Corax.

The Imperial Fist slapped a hand to his chest in salute and bowed his head as Corax stepped into the elevator. The door closed, enveloping the primarch and legionary in a soft blue glow of artificial light.

‘Where am I going to meet my brother?’ asked Corax.

‘Malcador will host you in the Hall of Victories, lord,’ replied the captain. ‘It will only take a few minutes to get there.’

They said nothing further to each other as the elevator continued to descend, dropping several kilometres into the heart of Terra. Eventually the conveyance slowed and Corax estimated that they were some distance below sea level. A short distance from the shaft the Imperial Fist brought him in front of a massive set of double doors, each gilded and engraved, showing a picture of a man and a woman facing each other. On the left door, the woman held a babe in the crook of one arm and a sword in her hand, her hair flowing like a waterfall, mingling with a billowing dress that in turn merged with the long grass at her feet. On the right, the man, dressed in a worker’s overalls, a chain with the crossed lightning bolt of Unification hanging around his neck, had a wrench in one hand and a pistol in the other, looking to the skies. Between them burned a stylised star, surrounded by other pinpricks in the sky.

Ornate scrollwork held a caption across the heavens, in one of the Terran languages of old. Corax had not been much of a scholar and had studied little of pre-Imperial Terran culture, unlike many of his brothers. He had felt little interest in the past, preferring to concentrate his thoughts and actions on the proper shaping of the future. Despite that, he could instinctively decipher the emblazoned message, crudely translating it as ‘People of Earth, Together.’

The doors opened easily at Corax’s push, swinging silently inwards to reveal a hall several hundred metres long. Corax was surprised to see arched windows along the wall to his right, with sunlight streaming through them.

Given the name of the place, Corax had expected to see lines of battle honours and banners, displays of armour and weapons lining the walls. Instead there were many glass cabinets varying from those small enough to fit in Corax’s palm to some the size of battle tanks, arranged in rows across the hall, each containing an object from across the galaxy and dating back centuries, millennia, tens of millennia.

Stepping up the nearest cabinet, Corax stooped to examine the contents. He felt a tingle of static and heard the faint buzz of a stasis field generator. Enclosed within was a small circuit board, its function unknown. On the stand below, a small steel plate etched with plain text revealed its importance:

Navigational Circuit from the first warp-capable starship

Corax stepped back in surprise. Intrigued, he turned around and found himself looking at the skeletal form of a wheeled vehicle, barely large enough for a normal man to sit inside. Its balloon tyres made up the greater part of its bulk. Corax stepped up to examine the title plate.

Titan Rover

The primarch was not sure what to make of it. It certainly looked like no Titan ever produced by the Mechanicum, which were towering war machines tens of metres high. He looked more closely at the vehicle, but could not see anything that might be a weapon mount.

With a grunt of confusion, he moved on, eyes passing over various technological artefacts and coming to rest on a glass tube filled with a pulsating liquid coloured a deep blue, located about a dozen metres further down the hall. The words beneath, though written in Imperial Gothic, might well have been an alien or lost language, for all the sense Corax could make of them.

Mendelian Eukaryotic Genesis Formula

Raking his fingers through his hair, which had slipped across his face, Corax straightened, bringing something else into his eyeline. It was a small cabinet, less than half a metre to each face, but its positioning on the central aisle seemed to mark it out as of particular importance.

Within was a broken piece of pottery. It was utterly unremarkable, shattered into eight curved shards of crude unpainted clay, marked with fingerprints and dents. Piercing the parts together in his mind, Corax worked out that it was a bowl of some kind.

He heard the whisper of the doors opening and turned back to see Malcador entering the hall, striding with purpose. His face was flushed with blood, his eyes bright and alert.

‘What is this place?’ Corax asked. ‘What manner of victories are celebrated?’

‘The most important kind,’ said the Sigillite, joining Corax beside the shattered bowl. He pointed with a skeletal finger at the contents of the cabinet. ‘One of the first pieces of pottery ever made by human hand. Hundreds of thousands of years old.’

‘It doesn’t seem like much of an achievement, compared to some of the things in here,’ said Corax. ‘It’s so simple, a child could make it.’

‘And yet perhaps one of the most important advances in our entire history, Corax,’ said Malcador. ‘Without this bowl, without the mind that devised it and the hands that shaped it, the rest of the hall would be empty. We have come a long, long way since one of our ancestors noticed a certain type of mud hardening in the sun and decided to make something, but without a first step, no journey is ever begun.’

‘All of these are technological achievements? First steps into new epochs of human history?’

‘Most are technological or scientific, a few are cultural,’ said Malcador. He waved his hand towards the far end of the hall where a number of paintings, statues, carvings, tapestries and other works of art were stored.

Before the primarch could investigate, the doors opened again, revealing a figure almost as tall as Corax and broader at the shoulders. Rogal Dorn’s white-blond hair was cropped short and spiked, framing his weathered features like a corona. He was dressed in demi-armour: chest, shins and forearms protected by plates and sheaths of golden metal etched with swirling designs similar to those on Corax’s own suit. A cloak of deep red reached down to Dorn’s ankles, held with a clasp shaped into a clenched fist on his left shoulder, pinned with a brooch in the form of the Imperial aquila on the right. He wore a skirt of golden mail that hung to his knees, and at the primarch’s waist was a belt that held a chainsword with fang-like teeth and a holstered bolter. Dorn’s hands were covered by segmented gauntlets of gold, each knuckle embedded with a sizeable ruby. His skin was leathery and heavily tanned, covered by traceries of thin scars and brand marks.

‘Brother!’ Dorn called out with a hand raised in greeting, his voice booming down the hall, disturbing the air of quiet reverence.

The two primarchs met and clasped wrist-to-wrist in welcome. Dorn slapped a hand to Corax’s shoulder and smiled briefly.

‘I promised I would be here today,’ said Dorn.

‘As ever, your word is as secure as the fortresses you raise,’ replied Corax, stepping back and releasing his grip on his gene-brother. Dorn’s expression darkened.

‘I hope that my latest work proves equal to the task.’

‘Your work is as exceptional as ever, Rogal,’ said Malcador. He waved for them to accompany him to the line of benches beneath the high windows. ‘There is not another in the galaxy the Emperor would want to raise up his walls for him.’

Corax stopped before sitting and looked out of the windows. Beyond was a wide valley, which appeared to be made entirely of metal. Glancing up, he saw the dull sky several hundred metres above. The entire edifice was delved into a deep fissure and continued to stretch below out of sight, storey after storey of windows and walkways, the divide criss-crossed by covered bridges, curving railway tracks and black roads.

‘The clerical tenements,’ explained Malcador, peering past Corax. ‘Three million men and women devoted to the administration of Terra and the Sol system.’

‘Three million? For one system?’ Corax could not believe what he heard. ‘Why so many?’

‘Oh, that’s just a fraction of the civil population, Corvus,’ said the Sigillite. ‘It’s barely enough to keep track of all the comings and goings here. Most of the others live in the service towers over at the Chivolan Heights, about seven hundred million of them.’

‘It is barracks space that concerns me more,’ said Dorn, lowering himself to the dark blue couch. ‘Your army of scribes and auditors are not going to keep Horus at bay.’

‘Give them guns and I am sure they will do their best,’ countered the Sigillite, sitting on the next bench.

‘I’ve already sent your honour guard to the new garrison quarters not far from here,’ Dorn told Corax as the Raven Guard primarch continued to look out of the window. ‘There is room for several thousand more, once the rest of your Legion arrives.’

Corax turned, eyebrows raised in surprise.

‘You think I’m bringing the Raven Guard here?’

‘Where else would they go? By the sounds of it, there are barely enough of you to make Deliverance look inhabited. We need every warrior we can to defend Terra. Captain Noriz tells me that you had one thousand, seven hundred and fourteen legionaries and other ranks on board Avenger. How many more can I factor into my plans to arrive from Deliverance?’

‘You are getting ahead of yourself, brother,’ Corax said, crossing his arms. ‘I came here to see the Emperor and will seek his permission to launch attacks against the traitors.’

‘Unwise,’ muttered Malcador, obviously to himself yet not quiet enough to avoid Corax’s keen hearing. The primarch rounded on Malcador.

‘I am not staying here to get trapped like a rat in a hole,’ snapped Corax. He calmed down and looked at Dorn again. ‘You know how we fight, brother. We were never expert at manning a tower or trench line. If the Raven Guard are to play their part, we need freedom to operate without our backs to a wall.’

‘Impossible,’ said Dorn. ‘Like it or not, I must insist that your Legion be stationed here to bolster the defence of the Emperor. Horus will be coming here, make no mistake about that. Our first duty – our onlyduty – is the protection of Terra. What damage do you think you can do on your own? You have, what, three thousand warriors? Horus now has many hundred times that number, and who can say how his ranks might swell? Your place is here, on Terra, like it or not.’

‘I like it not, and I do not care what you insist,’ said Corax, infuriated by Dorn’s assumption that the primarch of the Raven Guard would demurely acquiesce to his demand. ‘I swore my oath to the Emperor, not to you, and nor to you Malcador, before you start claiming any authority as regent.’

Dorn and the Sigillite said nothing as Corax stepped away from the windows, one hand rubbing at his brow in agitation. The Raven Guard primarch stopped his pacing and turned back to the others, hand held out in conciliation.

‘Why do you assume that Horus must attack Terra?’ Corax asked.

‘If he wishes to depose the Emperor and claim the galaxy for himself, there is no other way,’ said Malcador.

‘We will not allow that to happen,’ added Dorn.

‘You misunderstand me,’ said Corax. ‘You assume that Horus will reach Terra. You have already surrendered the initiative to our enemy and now run around making the best you can of the time he will allow you. We need to strike back fast, dull any momentum he has gained from the massacre at Isstvan, and stop this rebellion in its infancy.’

‘That was why you were sent to Isstvan,’ said Malcador, sighing heavily. ‘It is you who does not understand the situation fully. Horus has the allegiance of his own Legion, the Word Bearers, the Alpha Legion, the Iron War–’

‘I know the faces of the traitors, I saw them first hand at Isstvan,’ snarled Corax. ‘We are not without allies. The Khan and his White Scars, the Lion with the First. What of the Ultramarines and the Thousand Sons?’

There followed an uncomfortable silence, while Dorn and Malcador exchanged a worried glance. The primarch gave Malcador a slight nod.

‘The Thousand Sons cannot be numbered amongst those loyal to Terra,’ said the Sigillite. ‘I won’t go into details, but Magnus proved his untrustworthiness and has been dealt with. Leman Russ and his Legion were despatched to bring Magnus to account for breaking the Nikaea Decree.’

‘What does that mean?’ said Corax.

‘What happened is uncertain so far,’ said Dorn, his tone blunt. ‘The Wolves of Fenris were over-zealous. They have destroyed Prospero and wiped out the Thousand Sons.’

‘What would you expect, unleashing the Wolf King like that?’ said Corax.

‘If that were true, our woes would be lessened,’ said Malcador, his gaze moving between Corax and Dorn. ‘Only this morning I have reports from Prospero that Magnus and some of his Legion escaped the attack. I fear the numbers of our enemies will be swelled by Russ’s headstrong actions rather than reduced. Though there is no great kinship between Magnus and Horus, it seems we have given them a common foe.’

Dorn let out a growl of irritation, his fist thumping down onto the fabric of the bench. The primarch stood up and stared at Corax.

‘Every warrior will count,’ said Dorn. ‘We need you on Terra. We cannot stop Horus coming here. Accept that as fact and bring your Legion to the defence.’

‘Not unless the Emperor himself commands it,’ said Corax, once more pacing back and forth in front of the other two, driven by agitation. ‘I will not sit idle while Horus and our other traitorous brothers bide their time and ready themselves for the battle. They must be harangued and harried, made to pay swiftly for what they have done. They will be brimming with supreme confidence at the moment. I will puncture their pride and show them that they have not won yet.’

Corax stopped and fixed his glare upon Dorn.

‘I trust no one more than you, brother, to see the Emperor safe, but I do not have your confidence or patience. I must fight back and hurt the traitors, for what they have done to my Legion.’

‘A personal vendetta?’ said Malcador.

‘An act of defiance,’ replied Corax. ‘There are those that Horus will try to recruit. He can virtually guarantee them victory at the moment, with no evidence to counter his claims. I will send a message across the Imperium that the Emperor and his Legions have not abandoned them.’

The Raven Guard primarch spun away and strode towards the doors.

‘Where are you going?’ Dorn called out, standing up.

‘To see the Emperor!’ Corax snarled in reply.

‘He won’t see you, Corax, do not disturb him,’ Malcador cried out, hurrying after the departing primarch.

Corax hauled open the doors and found himself confronted by a contingent of Malcador’s Custodian bodyguard.

‘You,’ he snapped, pointing to their leader. ‘Take me to the Emperor.’

The Custodian said nothing, but turned his head to look at Malcador as he came up beside Corax.

‘This is unwise, Corax,’ the Sigillite said.

‘Be sensible, brother,’ said Dorn, laying a hand on Corax’s arm. The Raven Guard pulled away from his brother’s grip.

‘I am primarch of the Raven Guard, son of the Emperor,’ said Corax. ‘It is my right! Take me to the Emperor now, or I will find him myself.’

Dorn met his glare with a doubtful expression, his hand straying to the hilt of the chainsword at his hip in warning.

‘Enough! I will brook no dispute in my palace.’

Corax and Dorn looked at Malcador, who had spoken, though the voice was deep and resonant, unlike the whisper of the Sigillite. Malcador’s eyes shone with golden light, his face a mask of beatific happiness. His lips moved again, as though divorced from the rest of his body, and he held out a gnarled hand surrounded by a shimmering aura.

‘My Emperor?’ Dorn lowered to one knee and bowed his head. ‘I am sorry for causing conflict.’

‘Do you not share your brother’s shame?’ said the voice through Malcador’s flesh as the Sigillite’s golden eyes turned on the primarch of the Raven Guard.

‘My apologies, father,’ said Corax, dropping to one knee beside Dorn.

Malcador’s form leaned forwards and rested his palm atop Corax’s head.

‘Heed my wisdom.’

Light and warmth pierced Corax’s thoughts, blinding him to all else.

FOR A MOMENT, Corax glimpsed a vast chamber. The hall was filled with machinery: coiling pipes and cables snaked across the floor and walls from banks of equipment set with thousands of dials and gauges. The air was thick with ozone, the rattle and hum of generators making the floor throb underfoot. Transformers crackled with energy and pistons thudded in the distant shadows.

In the glimmer of light and dark, Corax could see hundreds of robed figures attending to the machinery. Beneath red cowls he spied half-machine faces and from scarlet sleeves protruded limbs of metal and wire.

Corax took all of this in at a glance, his eye being drawn to the strange but magnificent edifice at the centre of the hall. It was a gigantic, towering dais, stretching away to the far wall, sheathed in gold that reflected the thousands of surrounding lights and inlaid with silvery circuitry. Dozens of cables and pipelines connected the dais to the accompanying machines and electricity thrummed across its surface. A huge pair of doors was set into the base of the plinth, large enough to allow a tank or even one of the Mechanicum’s scout Titans to pass through.

Yet it was not this that fixed the primarch’s gaze.

The upper part of the building was fashioned in the form of an immense chair, ringed about by sparking conduits and pulsing energy fields. Seated in the chair was the Emperor, garbed in golden armour, his head bowed with eyes tightly shut in fierce concentration. Waves of purple and blue energy flowed across his skin, a miniature lightning storm playing about his furrowed brow.

As Corax watched, a single bead of glittering sweat broke from the Emperor’s brow and fell like a golden droplet from his cheek. The Emperor’s jaw was clenched, either from effort or pain. The primarch had never seen his father look as he did now, and he felt a moment of worry.

The scene faded, replaced by a landscape suffused with light. It seemed to exist nowhere, formed of the light and nothing more. At the heart of the glare the Emperor was sitting as he was before, though now he was upon a golden throne that blazed with energy. A giant eagle sat atop its back, two-headed, glaring at Corax with ruby eyes. The Emperor’s face was calm here, showing no evidence of the strain the primarch had glimpsed before. The Master of Mankind seemed to be in deep meditation, unmoving on his seat of gold.

‘Father, my Emperor, it is Corvus,’ he said, lowering himself to one knee. ‘If you can hear me, please heed my words. My Legion is all but dead and our enemies grow stronger with each passing day. I would know what you would wish me to do. It is in my heart to strike back at these traitors, to shed their blood as they have shed mine. All I ask is your blessing on this endeavour and I shall take the battle to the foe with righteousness in my heart and your glory in my mind.’

There was no change in the Emperor’s demeanour.

‘Father! Hear me!’ In his straining, Corax felt his wounds reopening under his armour, thick blood trickling down his side. He ignored the surge of pain. ‘The Raven Guard will fight to the last to protect the Imperial Truth. We are not so strong as once we were, but we will lay down each life left to us in your defence. But I need your help. Please, give me your wisdom, grant me your guidance.’

He broke down, collapsing as a wave of fatigue washed through him. For more than three hundred days he had fought back the injuries of Isstvan, pushing himself on. At first his Legion had needed him. Later, he had held on for this moment, enduring his agony in silence so that he might come before the Emperor and seek his lord’s command.

He had failed.

He had failed on Isstvan and he had failed here. Blood was leaking from his many wounds, as if in response to the hurt he felt in his psyche. With it, his vigour died and his will faded.

‘Son.’

That one word resounded across the glowing firmament, echoing and rebounding, filling Corax’s thoughts even as the sound came to his ear.

The Emperor’s eyes were open, glittering orbs of gold that bored into Corax’s soul. Motes of golden energy danced in those orbs, but their look was not without kindness. The Emperor stood, his armour melting away into wisps of golden threads to be replaced by robes of flowing silver that cascaded from his body like an argent waterfall.