Deliverance Lost, Page 2

  The cloud obscured his view, blanking it with whiteness, and he thought no more about the dead.

  CORAX COULD NOT bear the bleak expressions of his warriors and left to find himself a brief moment of sanctuary in the linking corridor that sloped gently up towards the cockpit. He was alone and had time to consider what had happened.

  Twice in the last one hundred days he had stared death in the face and twice he had survived. He had not just been in battle; such hazard was the life of any legionary or primarch. He had been poised moments from death in a way he had never experienced before.

  Stooping to prevent his head from banging the passageway ceiling, Corax turned his back to the wall and leaned back, legs braced against the opposite side of the corridor. He took off his helmet and gazed numbly at the battered grille of its faceplate before dropping the helm to the floor from weary fingers. He saw the dents and cracks in his armour, its ornate engravings pitted with bolter-round impacts, the delicate designs smeared into ruin by las-blasts and missile explosions. Beneath the plasteel and ceramite, his wounds ached. He could smell his own blood, clotted across a dozen grievous injuries.

  The primarch’s keen ears could pick up the background chatter of the communications net receiver in his discarded helmet, his subconscious mind absorbing the flow of information even as his conscious thoughts drifted elsewhere. The danger was not yet over. He knew he should contact Branne and establish the facts of the situation, but could not bring himself to do so just yet. From the vox traffic, he surmised that there was a World Eaters battle-barge nearby. Listening for a few more seconds, as the vox-unit continued to relay the Traitors’ position and course, Corax discovered that the World Eaters ship had earlier been on an attack heading but was now slowly withdrawing from the Raven Guard flotilla. The primarch dismissed the threat as minimal as recent events crowded his thoughts.

  Danger had been his companion since his first memories, and war had been his calling. Not once had he ever felt afraid to die, and even against the toughest enemies of the Emperor he had approached every confrontation with a certainty of survival and victory. Ninety-eight days had washed away his confidence. Nearly a hundred days of staying one step ahead of his pursuers. Nearly a hundred days of being hunted by his fellow primarchs. Ninety-eight days of constant movement, of attack and retreat, of counter-assault and withdrawal.

  He shuddered as he remembered the start of that testing time, when the traitors had revealed their intent and Corax had come so close to death at the hands of Konrad Curze, his brother who took such delight from being called the Night Haunter. Corax knew himself to be numbered amongst the best fighters in the service of the Emperor, and he had never considered Curze his equal. Curze was ill-disciplined, capable of sporadic genius but equally prone to moments of emotional blindness, moments a warrior like Corax could exploit with deadly effect. Yet there had been something about the Night Haunter that had unnerved the Raven Guard’s primarch, an aura that had reached into Corax’s spirit and found weakness. The hatred of Curze had shocked him, adding to the devastation he had felt at the treachery of Horus and many of his fellow primarchs; yet it was no excuse for fleeing from Curze.

  Fear. He had felt a moment of fear when confronted by his demented brother, and in the peace of the passageway he understood what it was that had caused him a moment of dread, looking into the dead eyes of the Night Haunter.

  They were moulded of the same stuff, Corax and Curze, creatures born and raised in shadow and fear.

  Curze had lived in the night-shrouded streets and alleys of Nostramo Quintus; Corax’s infancy had been amongst the tunnels and dungeons of the prison-moon of Lycaeus. Curze and Corax alike had seen worlds enslaved to the will of evil men, where the weak and destitute had toiled until death for the power and pleasure of others.

  In that moment, subjected to the full brunt of the Night Haunter’s scorn, Corax had realised how close he might have been to becoming the creature that was trying to kill him. Their lives were the toss of a coin apart. Corax had been taken in by men learned in politics and the human heart, and they had shown him compassion and support; Curze had received no such upbringing and had become a figure of vengeance and terror.

  To look at Curze had forced Corax to see himself as he might have been, shorn of the civilising influence of others and the code and principles his mentors had instilled in him. In that moment it had not been fear of Curze that had unmanned Corax but a dread of himself and, to his shame, he had fled rather than destroy the object of his dread.

  Alone in that vestibule on the roaring, shaking drop-ship, Corax despised himself for his moment of cowardice. He should have stayed and fought, should have slain the Night Haunter and killed pathetic Lorgar of the Word Bearers straight after, denying the rebels two of their commanders, even though it might have cost him his life. Perhaps that was why he had been so resigned to die at the hands of Angron, to sacrifice himself to the World Eater to absolve the shame of his earlier weakness.

  The door from the cockpit hissed open and Corax instantly straightened as best he could, resuming the poise of the Raven Guard primarch, Master of Deliverance and Lord of the Legiones Astartes. The co-pilot was startled by Corax’s presence just outside the door, his young face a mask of surprise.

  Corax smiled to ease the youth’s shock.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the primarch.

  ‘Sorry, lord, you were not answering your vox. We have Commander Branne on the main link.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Corax, nodding encouragement. ‘I will speak with him shortly.’

  As the co-pilot slipped back into the cockpit, Corax looked past him, through the main canopy. Ahead, the battle-barge of Commander Branne grew larger, a dark shape blotting out a swathe of stars. The Avenger, which Corax had last seen in orbit of Deliverance, was now here at Isstvan, against all expectation, a sight that lifted his spirits. Bombardment cannon turrets jutted from dorsal ridge of the ship, pointed at the world below. The weapons batteries were showing, deck upon deck of massed missile launchers and cannons bared like the fangs of a hound. The drop-ship yawed gradually, bringing the painted symbol of the Raven Guard on the battle-barge’s beaked prow into view as the pilot steered towards the gleaming light of the landing bays.

  Beyond were sparks of light brighter than the stars: the plasma engines of more vessels. The pinpricks of drop-ship and shuttle jets converged on the black-liveried ships as the evacuation came to its conclusion. Already the flotilla was turning away from the planet, ready to speed out into the void with the rescued legionaries.

  Corax smiled again, this time with relief. He did not understand how it was that Branne came to be here, but he was grateful for the fact. Deadly absolution at the hands of Angron would have been a righteous end, but with everything considered, Corax was glad he had survived to fight again.

  BRANNE STOOD IN the docking bay watching the drop-ships landing. The first ones to touch down were already disembarking their passengers. With weary steps, the survivors of the Raven Guard filed down the ramps onto the deck.

  They were a terrible sight. Most showed signs of injury. Their armour was a patchwork of colours: here the silver of an Iron Warriors shoulder pad, there the red breastplate of a Word Bearer, cracked and broken, bloodied and stained. Every face Branne looked upon was etched with fatigue. Glassy-eyed, the last survivors of the dropsite massacre trudged across the loading bay, welcomed by smiles and cheers from Branne’s warriors.

  Serfs came forwards with food and drink on plain metal trays, which the dull-eyed legionaries gulped and wolfed down without ceremony, replenishing superhuman bodies tested to the limit by their long guerrilla war. Shoulder pads were stripped off, weapons taken away for repair, while Apothecaries, Techmarines and their assistants tended to the most immediate issues of injury and maintenance.

  Though the events that had led up to the return of the survivors were unique, the doctrine of the Legion remained the same. A battle, whether won, lost or simply survi
ved, was history and the next battle would come soon enough. A warrior unprepared to fight again was no warrior at all. Though exhausted, their guns spent, their armour battered, their spirits stretched to breaking, the Raven Guard were in a warzone and so they took up fresh bolters and magazines of ammunition, and allowed the Techmarines and Apothecaries to render such help as was needed to allow them to fight again if the need arose.

  Half-machine, half-human servitors clunked and hissed through the growing throng, bearing crates of ammunition, boxes of grenades and spare parts for Legiones Astartes power armour. Other servitors, hulking things with cranes for arms and tracks for legs, rumbled to the drop-ships, replenishing bombs and missiles from racks on trailers hitched to their metal spines.

  The last of the shuttles touched down. Branne approached it as the docking ramp lowered. The first legionary out was a bizarre sight, his armour a mess of colours and bare ceramite. Only his shoulder pad, bearing the Legion’s badge, remained from his original suit. He took off his helmet and tossed it to the floor.

  ‘Agapito!’ Branne laughed. He slapped a hand to his true brother’s chest. ‘I knew you would be alive. Too stubborn to let something like this kill you.’

  Branne looked closely at his brother, amazed by his outlandish appearance. A new scar ran from his right cheek to his throat, but beyond that it was the same face Branne had known for his whole life. Agapito returned the smile wearily. His deep brown eyes regarded Branne warmly. He reached a hand behind Branne’s head and pulled him closer. The two touched foreheads in a sign of respect and comradeship.

  ‘I see you have not managed to stay out of trouble, Branne.’

  The commander stepped back from Agapito to see Corax descending the ramp. The primarch towered over his legionaries, his black armour showing as much wear and tear as that of those under his command.

  ‘I was monitoring your transmissions,’ said Corax. ‘Why did the enemy abort their attack?’

  ‘I have no idea, Lord Corax,’ said Branne. ‘Perhaps they thought better of taking on three vessels at once.’

  ‘Where are they now?’ asked the primarch.

  ‘They’ve withdrawn to a hundred thousand kilometres,’ Branne replied. ‘They don’t look as if they’ll try to attack again.’

  ‘Odd,’ said Corax. ‘Signal your other ships to make course for Deliverance.’

  ‘Yes, Lord Corax,’ Branne said, holding his fist to his chest. ‘And where are we to head?’

  ‘Terra,’ replied the primarch. ‘I must have an audience with the Emperor.’

  Branne and Agapito shared a glance with each other but said nothing as Corax strode out of the docking bay. Branne looked again at his brother and saw a strange look in Agapito’s eyes. They roved around the deck, taking in every detail, settling nowhere.

  ‘Relax, brother,’ said Branne, slapping his hand to Agapito’s arm. ‘No enemies here. You’re safe.’

  Agapito turned a distant look on Branne and nodded uncertainly. His confusion and discomfort passed and Agapito smiled, gripping Branne’s arm in return.

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Agapito. ‘I thought I would never see the inside of a Raven Guard ship again.’

  A warning siren sounded three times, its piercing blare cutting through Branne’s thoughts.

  ‘Strategium to Commander Branne,’ a voice announced over the general address system. ‘Proximity warning. Enemy ships have altered course towards our position. Intercept estimated at five hours.’

  ‘Stand by to engage reflex shields,’ he replied over his vox-bead. He darted a look at Agapito, forcing an encouraging smile. ‘Well, maybe not safe just yet.’

  THE AVENGER BROKE with the other two ships of the flotilla, all three vessels leaving orbit on different headings to confuse and disperse their energy trails. The other two ships, Triumph and Raven’s Valour, would head out-system before translating to the warp and their journey back to the Legion homeworld of Deliverance. Corax commanded the Avenger to make for Isstvan IV, both to confuse pursuit and with a hope of linking up with a small fleet of Therion ships Branne had despatched to that world several days earlier to misdirect the Traitor blockade of Isstvan.

  The hope that the Imperial Army ships had survived was faint; the Therions had last been the target of a World Eaters armada and several other vessels. With the Raven Guard Legion and fleet on the brink of extinction, every ship and soldier was a vital asset, and after weighing up the rewards and risks, Corax judged it worth a few days to see if he could bolster his forces a little more with the Therions.

  Branne had also argued persuasively that the Raven Guard had an obligation to their allies to at least attempt to link up. As much as the Therions might be a military asset, the message that those loyal to the Emperor would not be abandoned was equally important given the calamitous events that Isstvan had witnessed. Corax had made it clear to his commanders that the Avenger was now too valuable to risk without good cause, and that the search would be short. If there was any risk of discovery, the battle-barge would immediately cease the hunt and head out-system for warp transit.

  As soon as the Raven Guard’s ships were far enough from the planet below to be safe from ground-based fire, they engaged their reflex shields. An innovation from the planet of Kiavahr, orbited by the home-moon of the Raven Guard, the reflex shield was a modified version of the void shields that protected most Imperial warships and installations.

  A void shield worked by using the power of the warp itself to displace incoming projectiles and high-energy attacks. The reflex shield changed the modulation of the warpcores that powered the void shields, calibrating them to a much higher tolerance and turning them inwards, so that matter and energy generated by the ship was redirected instead; all forms of radiation emitted by the Raven Guard’s ships could be displaced, rendering them undetectable to scanning equipment.

  The advantages of the reflex shield technology fitted well with Corax’s ethos of war, allowing Raven Guard ships to approach their targets unseen, striking swiftly and decisively before withdrawing. The low energy requirement meant that such stealth could be maintained almost indefinitely. There was, however, a serious downside to their use. By employing its void shield generators for the reflex shields, a Raven Guard vessel had no defence against physical attack and it took time to power the generators from one state to the other, leaving a ship vulnerable for several minutes with neither its cloaking field nor its energy defence fully operational, hence the swift exit from orbit.

  To the augurs and scanning arrays of the Traitor bases and ships throughout the Isstvan system, the three Raven Guard ships seemed to melt away into the stars. To the naked eye they would have appeared to shimmer for a while, as the reflex shields engaged and shifted away the light reflecting from the ships’ surfaces, until eventually all such energy was being dampened and the vessels were rendered invisible.

  One other problem with the reflex shield, one that Corax had unsuccessfully laboured to overcome for many years, was the low energy threshold for which it could compensate. Reactors could only be run at half power without generating too much energy to be displaced, in turn reducing top speed and blinkering the ship’s sensor capabilities. So it was that slowly, half-blind, the Avenger slipped away from Isstvan V, tracing an arc around the world until it came to its chosen heading.

  The ship did not make directly for Isstvan IV, it being a doctrine of the Legion to always approach a target by an indirect route, but instead took a circuitous, zigzagging path, using a timing and distance formula devised by Corax to maximise the damping effect of the reflex shields, enough to throw off any pursuer or sensor that might somehow detect them. Corax did not believe in taking chances when it came to moving freely and unseen.

  It would be several days before the Avenger would bring Isstvan IV within range of its reduced sensor screen, and Corax took the time to review the organisation of the remnants of his Legion.

  Including Branne’s companies, he had a little fewer th
an four thousand legionaries of varying ranks and specialisations. The majority he had formed into the ‘Talons’ – tactical companies under Agapito’s command. The survivors of the various assault platoons, along with several Dreadnought-incarcerated veterans, had been banded together into the ‘Falcons’, led by Aloni Tev. Lastly, the handful of bike squads, land speeders and aircraft crews still remaining were put together under the command of Captain Solaro An, and were given the designation ‘Hawks’.

  Two days out from Isstvan V, Corax called a council of his four commanders and explained the reorganisation and reassignments that would be made once the Legion was gathered again at Deliverance.

  The five of them met in Branne’s chambers, given over to the use of the primarch since his arrival on the ship. The main room was plainly decorated, the plasteel walls painted a muted blue, broken only by an armour and weapons rack on which the commander’s artisan-crafted wargear would normally hang; it was empty at the moment as every legionary in the force was permanently geared for battle, so that they even slept in their armour with a bolter in their hands.

  The floor was carved with a relief of the Raven’s Guard’s device – a heraldic bird with wings and claws outstretched, surrounded by a coiled chain. Upon the symbol was a table of burnished bronze-like metal, inscribed also with the insignia of the Legion, circular in shape and with vox-thieves and display stations for a dozen attendees. The screens were dull slabs of lifeless grey at the moment, their keypads and emitters dormant while silent running protocols were in effect; every watt of energy saved might prove the difference between escape and detection.

  Corax stood facing the double doors that led back to the strategium, leaning forwards with his fists resting on the table. Agapito and Aloni sat to his right, Branne and Solaro to his left. As brothers, Branne and Agapito were alike, with square jaws, heavy brows and flat cheeks. Both were from the slave-prison of Deliverance and even the augmentations and manipulations that had turned them into legionaries had not completely eradicated the somewhat sallow and pitted cast to their skin. Agapito was marked out by his fresh scar, but it was the anxious flicker that occasionally crept into his gaze that bore greater testament to the harsh experience he had suffered during the dropsite massacre.