There was no reply for half an hour, as Corax paced back and forth across the strategium. Finally the vox crackled into life, with a voice that was deep and thoughtful, every word carefully enunciated, every syllable spoken with crisp authority.
‘Is that you, Corax? It is about time you contacted me, brother. I was wondering if the news that you were still alive had been yet another breakdown in communication.’
‘Brother Rogal, yes it is Corax,’ replied the primarch. ‘If you do not find me an orbital station in the next five minutes, I’m going to use my weapons batteries to make a space for myself.’
There was a short but hearty laugh over the vox.
‘That would not be a good idea!’ said Rogal Dorn. ‘I heard that you had arrived, but then I must admit that your whereabouts were washed away in all of the other clutter. Do you want to berth at a platform or take up an independent orbit?’
‘We need to resupply,’ said Corax. ‘I’ll shuttle down with an advance guard.’
‘I will send you the coordinates of Beta-Styx platform. It has a fully-stocked victualling yard. You can come down to Lion’s Gate port and I will despatch a delegation to meet you.’
‘A delegation? Too busy to greet your brother in person?’
‘Yes. I will be back at the Imperial Palace within the day.’
‘Understood, brother. I wish our reunion was in much lighter times.’
‘It is not for our kind to meet in peace, brother, you should know that. We will talk more tomorrow; I have something I must attend to urgently.’
With that, the frequency devolved into static once more. A data screen flickered into life, a list of spatial coordinates scrolling across it in yellow lettering and signed with the insignia of the Imperial Fists.
‘Prepare for docking manoeuvres,’ Corax announced. ‘And ready me a Stormbird. Agapito, choose a company to act as honour guard. Branne, you have command.’
A series of affirmatives chorused across the strategium as the primarch walked towards the doors. Corax stopped as they slid open and turned his head.
‘Branne?’
The commander froze, halfway into the control throne. He stood and looked back at the primarch and saw a lopsided smile on Corax’s face.
‘Yes, lord?’
‘As much as I appreciate your arrival at Isstvan, please stay where I put you this time.’
‘Aye, lord. I will.’
AS THE AVENGERpowered towards the orbital dock, preparations were made for Corax and a small entourage to descend to the surface of Terra. Branne found Agapito on the launch deck, with a company of his legionaries. The clatter of a heavy servitor’s tracks echoed from the metal walls, blotting out the dormant whine of a Stormbird’s engines. Branne thought he sensed some anxiety in his brother’s demeanour.
‘Relax, brother, this is not a combat mission,’ said Branne.
‘And all the more dangerous for it,’ replied Agapito. ‘Suspicion surrounds us like a cloud. You saw how Captain Noriz treated us. I expect no warm welcome on the surface.’
‘So it will be up to you to assure our allies that we can be trusted,’ said Branne.
Agapito hesitated, and glanced over Branne’s shoulder. Corax entered the flight bay, nodded to the two commanders and strode up the Stormbird’s boarding ramp without a word.
‘I’m not the only one that feels it,’ said Agapito, his gaze on the drop-ship, his thoughts clearly on the primarch now aboard. ‘Now is not the time for rash displays of loyalty. I’m worried Lord Corax will promise more than we can currently deliver.’
‘We can’t afford to let the traitors make their preparations without pause,’ said Branne. ‘Would you want us simply to let them proceed as they wish?’
Leaning closer, Agapito’s voice dropped to a whisper.
‘We were nearly wiped out, brother,’ he said. ‘If we do not tread carefully, the execution Horus planned for us at Isstvan will be carried out at another place. You know that we lack the strength to fight at the moment.’
Concerned by his brother’s words, Branne slapped a hand to Agapito’s shoulder guard.
‘What happened on Isstvan is over,’ said Branne, guessing the source of Agapito’s hesitance. ‘We lost most of the Legion, but we survived.’
‘“We” survived, brother? I don’t remember you at the dropsite.’
‘Through no fault of my own!’ snapped Branne, snatching back his hand. He was infuriated that of all his comrades, it was Agapito who had given voice to the accusation Branne had suspected lingered in the minds of his battle-brothers. ‘How can I be held responsible for the drawing of lots that left me as garrison commander?’
‘You misunderstand me, brother,’ said Agapito, with a sorrowful shake of the head. ‘It is not personal, but you can never understand what it was like to be there. I don’t begrudge your absence, I envy it.’
‘You haven’t talked about the dropsite at all, to me or the primarch,’ said Branne, his anger punctured by Agapito’s confession. ‘Some of the others, they have found it helpful to discuss what they saw, to share their stories. Tell me, what happened to you at the dropsite?’
‘No,’ said Agapito, stepping away. He signalled to his warriors to begin boarding as the launch bay lights dimmed in readiness for the main doors to open. Overhead, klaxons sounded the five-minute warning. ‘Some stories are best left untold. You do not want to know what I did at the dropsite.’
Branne said nothing as his brother turned away, confused by the change he had seen in Agapito. His fellow commander had once been the first to swap war stories on the ship back to Deliverance, taking great delight in recounting his kills and close calls with death. Even as young boys, when they had fought for the liberty of Deliverance, before the Emperor had come and brought the Legion, Agapito would rouse the flagging spirits of the freedom fighters with tales of his daring and their victories over the Kiavahran enslavers.
He watched as Agapito stood at the bottom of the ramp, counting off the squads as they ran into the Stormbird amid the thunderous falls of boots on metal. As the last of the legionaries passed him, Branne noticed something on their shoulder guards, a small device painted under the Legion symbol. It was a grey skull, almost as dark as the black of their armour. Now that he noticed it, Branne saw it in the insignia of all the company’s warriors. He waved aside one of the squad leaders as he jogged past.
‘Sergeant Nestil, a word,’ said the commander.
‘Yes, captain,’ said Nestil, coming to attention in front of Branne.
‘What does this mean?’ asked Branne, prodding a finger towards the small sigil.
‘Isstvan veteran, captain,’ replied the sergeant with no hint of reluctance. ‘There was no official campaign badge or honours issued, captain. We thought it would be good to remember the fallen.’
‘You have all taken this on?’ said Branne.
‘All of us that fought there, yes, captain, at least in the Talons,’ said Nestil. He glanced towards Agapito, and Branne took his meaning.
‘Whose idea was this?’ asked Branne.
‘I’m not sure, captain,’ admitted Nestil. He looked away, glancing again at Agapito. ‘It was just one of those ideas that seemed to catch on.’
‘Sorry to delay you, sergeant,’ said Branne, waving Nestil to carry on.
Not good, thought Branne as he watched Agapito follow Nestil up the ramp onto the Stormbird. A commander being close-lipped about what he had done and legionaries giving themselves honours. The dropsite massacre had caused serious damage to the Raven Guard, even more than the seventy-five thousand dead legionaries.
STRAPPED INTO HIS berth beside one of the viewing ports, Alpharius had a good view of Terra as the Stormbird dipped away from the Avenger. It had been a fortunate turn to be included in Corax’s honour guard and would provide, he hoped, a good opportunity to see the defences being prepared to welcome Horus. Aside from whatever else he might be asked to do, his role in the Raven Guard was to gather intelligence for the final, inevitable assault on the Emperor’s stronghold. Everything he could learn now would give the Warmaster and his allies a valuable warning of what to expect.