‘Your life is yours,’ said Branne. He let go of the sash and soothed away the crease he had made. ‘Your family’s honour is upheld. I am sorry for my distrust, Marcus.’
Valerius sighed and smiled.
‘It does not really matter, does it?’ he said, tugging at the sash. ‘Honour, loyalty, family. Horus will care for none of that.’
‘And that is why they are more important than ever,’ said Branne. ‘Especially loyalty.’
WEAPON BAYS OPENED along the length of the Dedicated Wrathrevealing banks of macro-cannons, plasma drivers and missile bays, like a savage hound baring its teeth. Along the dorsal superstructure, bombardment turrets swivelled, their cannons extending from armoured towers. Retro-thrusters fired along the battle-barge’s length as it reduced speed for the attack, its course curving gracefully to starboard so that its massive broadside would be brought to bear.
On the bridge, Delerax stood behind his command throne, his fingers gripping its back. The display was alive with signals showing the position of the Raven Guard vessels and their returning drop-craft. The World Eater had calculated his angle of attack to bring him between the enemy battle-barge and the returning flotilla of landing craft.
He heard the growl of the bridge doors opening and turned to see Horus’s representative enter. The Space Marine wore his helmet, as he had done in every meeting since coming aboard. His armour was painted in blue livery, but was otherwise devoid of any organisational markings.
‘Cease your attack, lieutenant-commander.’ The order came in a calm, clipped tone from the Space Marine’s external address system, and had the ring of artificial modulation to disguise it.
Delerax laughed and turned back to the main screen.
‘Corax and his Legion are doomed,’ he said. ‘See for yourself. In less than ten minutes, we will open fire and destroy them forever.’
‘I speak with the authority of the Warmaster,’ said the Space Marine. ‘Cease your attack immediately.’
‘That authority counts for nothing here,’ said Delerax. He turned and squared off against the other. ‘If you want your orders to be obeyed, return to the Alpha Legion where you belong.’
‘It is has been decided that Corax has still a part to play,’ said the Alpha Legionnaire. ‘It has been decided that for the moment he will be allowed to live.’
‘Decided by you?’ Delerax’s question was harsh with scorn. ‘Who are you to make such a decision?’
‘I am Alpharius,’ said the Legionnaire.
‘Remove yourself from my bridge, or I will have your corpse removed.’
Delerax glimpsed Kordassis to his left, pulling a bolt pistol from its holster. The World Eater smiled at the Alpha Legionnaire. His smile faded as he felt the cold touch of a muzzle against his cheek. He turned his head a fraction to see Kordassis holding his pistol to Delerax’s head.
‘What is this?’ the lieutenant-commander hissed. ‘What are you doing, Kordassis?’
‘I am not Kordassis,’ said the Space Marine holding the bolt pistol. ‘I am Alpharius.’
Delerax twisted and made a lunge for the traitor’s gun. Muzzle flash blinded the World Eater and an instant later he felt the side of his skull exploding.
BRANNE STOOD IN the docking bay watching the drop-ships landing. The first 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 Warrior shoulder pad; there the grey breastplate of a Word Bearer. Their armour was cracked and broken, bloodied and stained, and 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.
The last of the shuttles touched down. Branne approached it as the docking ramp lowered. The first Space Marine 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 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 Legiones Astartes, 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 the idea, 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. He shook his head as if dismissing a thought. ‘Signal the 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.’
BLOOD AND BRAINS leaked from the side of Delerax’s skull. The World Eaters lieutenant-commander could feel his life leaking away with it. He could not move his legs and arms, and could feel nothing below his neck. It was an effort just to breathe.
He swivelled his eyes up to Kordassis, wondering who it was he looked at.
‘Why?’ he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The Alpha Legionnaire loomed into view, stooping over Delerax. The World Eater could see his ravaged face reflected in the dark eye lenses of the Alpha Legionnaire’s helmet. That blank mask betrayed nothing of the Space Marine’s thoughts or mood. His metal-edged voice seemed distant as Delerax drew a last, rattling breath.
‘In times such as these, even the most trusted face can conceal an enemy.’
LITTLE HORUS
Dan Abnett
‘Look like the innocent flower,
but be the serpent under it.’
– Litus, Remarks.
LET US SPEAK of Little Horus, Little Horus Aximand. His aspect was the half moon, and his disposition, according to the humours, was inclining towards melancholia. This explained, many thought, his prevailing mood of sorrow and inner trouble, though he frequently denied it. ‘The melancholic humour is misunderstood,’ he said. ‘You think too literally. It has, in fact, the quality of autumn. It is the spirit of contemplative change, the accelerator of death, the enabler of ends and beginnings. Autumn clears away the world so that a new one may rise. This is my purpose. I am not sad.’
Of course, once they reattached his face, all he ever really looked was angry.
DWELL LAY IN their path, and illumination was required. The Dwellers were not Old Wayignorant. The shadows of the Long Night had been previously banished from their shores, and they had been compliant since their recovery thirty-two years earlier. The Dwellers had supplied eighty fine, loyalregiments to the Crusade armies.
Isstvan was fresh in the memory, however, and blood-stained rumours of the infamy were spreading. A ferocious series of repercussive combats had flared through the Momed, Instar and Oqueth sectors. The instigator was a leader of the Iron Tenth, a flesh-spare warleader of the Sorrgol Clan named Shadrak Meduson, and it was he who marshalled the loyalists against the approaching fleet of the Warmaster’s 63rd Expedition. Meduson and his formations had come too late to stand with their Iron-handed master at Isstvan V. Rage, and calculated vengeance, smoked in his alloy heart. He had gathered fifty-eight full battalions of the Imperial Army about him, war hosts from the Momed voidhives, along with a flotilla of siege hulks from Nahan Instar, a half-broken cadre of Salamanders, some Mechanicum claves, and a White Scars raid-force rerouted from a return voyage to the Chondax war front.