A sub-screen flickered into life on the main viewer, showing an aggregate view from the torpedoes, rendered in a stark black and red monochrome. Strange shapes whirled and Delerax realised they must have switched view while the torpedoes were in mid-jump. A moment later they rematerialised in the real universe and the strike cruiser flashed into view.
It was long and thin, with a launch bay built on its dorsal superstructure. Pinpricks of plasma erupted like sparks from the flight deck as the Salamanders launched attack craft to intercept the incoming torpedoes.
‘Five thousand kilometres, spread launch,’ announced the officer.
The torpedo-generated image swirled into static for a few seconds as the missiles separated, each disgorging four hundred warheads at the Salamanders cruiser. When the relay returned the view was filled with a cloud of sixteen hundred glimmering projectiles. Explosions blotted out the stars as the Salamanders craft swooped and climbed and rolled through the mass, blasting away with cannons and lasers. As the warhead launchers continued to power towards the strike cruiser – each containing a five megatonne nuclear charge – the defence turrets of the Salamanders vessel opened up. Ripples of plasma blasts and flashes of high-velocity munitions streaked across the view, detonating even more of the warheads.
The torpedoes were close enough now to relay a direct-image. The construct-based picture was replaced by a near real-time view of the strike cruiser. It was dark green and banded with broad irregular stripes of yellow, the badge of the Legion visible against a huge white circle near its prow. Through the haze of detonations, it turned away, the captain trying to narrow the ship’s profile against the swarm of incoming warheads. Plasma engines shone like stars through the fog of explosions, distorted by a shimmer of energy fields.
‘Fool,’ said Delerax, smiling at the weapons officer. ‘A rudimentary mistake. One should turn into a torpedo attack, protecting the engines. A novice, no doubt.’
Blue and purple lightning flickered as the remaining warheads, several hundred of them, slammed into the strike cruiser’s shields. The vessel was engulfed by a blaze of detonations, so bright it appeared on the main display like a nova being born. More explosions followed as the shields overloaded and the remaining warheads struck the cruiser’s armoured hull. Plasma billowed from a ruptured engine duct.
A moment later the mini-screen vanished as the warhead launchers detonated.
‘Scanners confirm severe engine damage and moderate damage to the starboard gunnery decks.’
‘Signal the flotilla, close in for the kill,’ replied Delerax.
‘Receiving transmission from Legion command,’ declared a communications aide. ‘Strapped with a priority subsignal.’
‘On speakers,’ replied Delerax, not moving his eyes from the screen.
The bridge hissed with static and a series of coded beeps and buzzes sounded before a bass voice broke across the noise. Delerax’s attention was immediately fixed on the message, all other considerations forgotten as he recognised the voice of Angron, the World Eaters primarch.
‘The treacherous sons of Corax continue to elude that lumbering engineer, Perturabo. The Warmaster has seen fit to give me free hand at the hunt and I will bring down the scum of Deliverance within days. All ships are to return to orbit to conduct the search. To me, my savage hounds! We shall let loose our fury upon the Raven Guard and wipe them from history. Obey with immediate effect.’
‘Shall we break away?’ asked Kordassis.
‘No,’ replied Delerax. He looked at the strike cruiser limping towards the asteroid field followed by a trail of expanding plasma: a predator seeing its prey wounded and ready for the kill. ‘Let the others chase the Raven Guard back and forth across the mountains. A few more hours will make no difference. I have a Salamander to slay.’
BRANNE FROWNED AND looked at the scanner report again. It did not make any more sense on the second reading. He turned to his companion, the Imperial Army praefector, Marcus Valerius.
‘A large residual trace of plasma and radiation, plus scattered debris clouds,’ said the Raven Guard commander.
‘A space battle?’ asked the praefector.
‘A large one,’ replied Branne. ‘Too large.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Valerius.
Branne handed him the report and walked over to the men working the scanner console, his armour’s heavy boots muffled by the thick carpet laid over the decking. ‘Have these readings been confirmed by the rest of the fleet?’
‘Yes, commander,’ replied the chief officer. ‘Within standard parameters, all sensor returns are showing the same across the fleet.’
‘What do you mean by “too large”?’ said Valerius.
‘Dozens of destroyed ships,’ said Branne. ‘More ships than the entirety of the Luna Wolves fleet.’
‘Imperial Army vessels turned by the Warmaster, perhaps,’ suggested the officer. ‘Oh, and were they not renamed the Sons of Horus?’
The praefector toyed with the red sash across his chest, a symbol of his family’s nobility. It showed signs of wear from Valerius’s constant fidgeting during the long warp jump from Deliverance to Isstvan. The praefector’s nervousness was understandable, though it irritated Branne considerably. Valerius had persuaded the Raven Guard commander to abandon his role as garrison leader of the Ravenspire to come to Isstvan and had vouched for the act with his life. Branne was more than willing to exact the price offered if the trap he suspected proved to be true.
‘Even so, it would indicate almost total destruction of the involved fleet,’ said Branne, ignoring the praefector’s correction. ‘That many destroyed ships indicate a much larger battle.’
‘How do we proceed?’ asked Valerius.
Branne considered his options. His fleet, composed of three Raven Guard vessels including his battle-barge and a handful of Imperial Army transports and frigates, had entered Isstvan perpendicular to the orbital plane. He studied the schematic display of the fleet’s position on a monitor; a projected course drew a dotted line around the Isstvan star towards the planets currently on the other side of the system.
‘Activate sensor dampening protocols,’ said the commander. ‘Rig reflex shields for silent approach. We’ll come in across the star to mask our signature. I don’t want to be seen.’
‘What about my vessels?’ asked Valerius. ‘We don’t have that capability.’
‘Get them to run as quiet as possible,’ said Branne. ‘Until we find out what has happened, I don’t want anyone else to know we are here.’
‘Quiet running will slow us down,’ said Valerius. He blinked rapidly, another nervous tic he had developed. ‘What if we are being too cautious and arrive late?’
‘Late for what?’ rasped Branne, out of patience with the praefactor’s constant hectoring. ‘The battle’s already happened, Marcus. Whatever occurred here is over.’
FIVE DAYS CLOSER to Isstvan V, where the majority of the fighting appeared to have taken place, Branne was in his quarters when he was passed word that the ship was receiving a transmission from Valerius’s flagship.
‘Send it through to my personal comm,’ said Branne, putting aside the data-slate of sensor readings he had been studying. The reports all confirmed the initial survey. A space battle, or rather several battles in a short period of time involving nearly a hundred vessels, had raged around Isstvan V and out-system towards Isstvan VI.
‘Commander Branne, we have picked up a signature code.’ Valerius’s voice sounded reedy and weak over the hissing comm-link. ‘It’s an Iron Hands identification transmission. A ship identifying itself as the Glory of Victory. It’s automated. Trying to track the signal for reply.’
‘Negative,’ snapped Branne. ‘Do not open transmission. Do you want everybody in the Isstvan system to know we are here?’
‘My apologies, commander,’ said Valerius. ‘However, a narrow-beam signal would be very hard to detect. Perhaps those on the Iron Hands ship can tell us what happened here.’