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.