Valle Vitae

Nolaro awoke to pain, his body aching from scalp to toe and the feeling of broken bones moving freely within his chest. The damage to his frame was extensive but his chest burned hot where his Genhanced body pieced itself back together, the gifts of Corvus Corax keeping him alive where any mortal man would have died. His Mark IV plate blared alarums into his ear, but he ignored them. He didn't need to be told how bad the situation was.

Nolaro's bones screamed as he lifted his head but he overrode the pain with force of will, he had no time to rest. He looked about the ruined hold of the Stormbird and saw calamity writ in every inch. The dropship was smashed, its fuselage twisted and warped and there was a massive hole in the side where a ground to air missile had impacted the craft's flank. Black-clad bodies were strewn everywhere, noble Legionnaires of the XIXth laid low by the vilest of treacheries. Grief whelmed up within him but he pushed it back, his life was far from safe and time was running out. The rear of the compartment was filled with flickering flames and smokey soot, the fuel lines had been severed and in minutes this troop bay would be consumed by an inferno.

Nolaro forced his knees under him, his frame screaming in protest all the while. His armour was battered and scored, much of its black enamel sheared off by the crash and craters peppered its front from bolt-round impacts. He staggered to his feet and fought through the purple spots in his eyes as he took up his bolter, an old Phobos pattern, and saw he had only two magazines left, hardly reassuring. Nolaro's vision blurred as his armour struggled to find a vox-net, but there was no sign of one, the Raven Guard's communications were awash with jamming.

Resorting to basic measures Nolaro called, "Anyone still alive?"

From the front of the troop bay a gruff voice called, "Sergeant Nolaro? It's Damolos."

Then a sly voice called out, "Brother Engar reporting, we thought you were dead."

Nolaro's head was spinning but he focused and saw two Brothers closing, one in obsolete Mark II plate and with a grinding chainaxe in hand, ripped from the grip of a Traitorous World Eater. The other wore Mark IV and was slighter in build, he was hard to focus upon like he walked in shadow at all times. His plate was scored by vicious slashes and he boasted a shattered left pauldron, broken by specialised ammunition that had cut through ceramite with ease. Neither one was from his squad but there hadn't been time for orderly embarkation. The Stormbird had grabbed whoever it could and blasted away, fleeing for high orbit. They hadn't made it, the air had been filled with enemy fighters and ground fire had been intense, knocking evac craft out of the sky in droves.

"This everybody?" Nolaro asked.

Damolos nodded forlornly, "We're all that's left."

"The pilots?"

Engar sighed, "Died on impact."

It was horrific news, on any other day a calamity, but today it was merely one more disaster in an endless litany. "There's no point waiting to die in an explosion, follow me," he ordered.

He led them to the gaping hole in the side of the Stormbird and peered into a vision of hell beyond. Everywhere across the Urgall Depression explosions rose, the crump of artillery consuming acres of ground at a time. Thunder battered his faceplate and on the far horizon a mushroom cloud arose, from an atomonic bomb unleashed at close quarters. The sky was filled with fleeing dropships, racing for the heavens as they were chased by missiles, flak and enemy interceptors. A few made it out but they were scant in number, the vast majority were dying in flaming contrails as they were swatted from the sky.

In the distance hordes of Transhumans clashed, thousands dying before his eyes in oceans of blood. From afar he witnessed the last stand of the Raven Guard, Iron Hands and Salamanders. From one side the World Eaters, Death Guard, Emperor's Children and Sons of Horus advanced, decimating all in their path. They drove hard into the ragged survivors, pushing them against the solid bastions of the Word Bearers, Night Lords, Iron Warriors and Alpha Legion. The hammer against the anvil, a classic manoeuvre as deadly as it was merciless. This was Istavaan V, the supposed site of the rebellion's defeat, instead it would go down in history forevermore as the Dropsite Massacre.

Nolaro felt the ache of betrayal grip his hearts, disbelief and outrage drowning his soul in torment. This was treachery unprecedented in human history, a crime that would ring down the ages. That four Legions could turn their backs on the Emperor, beloved by all, had seemed insanity but that half the force sent to punish the rebels would join them was unthinkable. The Xth, VIIIth and XIXth Legions were paying for their lack of imagination with blood, cut down by shell, bolt, las and chainaxe. Here and there knots of resistance held out but they were isolated and few, their defiance would be brief.

Nolaro could hardly think but his discipline held, he had to remain functional or die. He dared the vox and transmitted, "Burning wings, the valley of death, call of the flock." It was an old prison-code from Kiavhar, one of the Raven Guard's defunct private cyphers. Their comm-protocols were probably broken, but few would understand their shibboleth tongue, or so Nolaro hoped.

He had sent out a brief report of their crash, dire situation and a request for guidance. In return the vox crackled and a distant voice called, "The stars bleed."

Engar translated, "The battle is lost."

"Swift winds, high skies."

Damolos translated, "Breakout and scatter, go to ground and regroup elsewhere."

"Knives in the dark."

Nolaro said, "No support, no rescue possible."

"A King falls."

"No…" Damolos breathed.

But Nolaro said flatly, "A primarch has died."

"Who?" Damolos cried, "Not Corax?"

"We don't know, we may be fortunate and it proves to be Vulkan or Ferrus Manus," Engar protested.

"What a day, to wish a Brother Legion loses its Primarch instead of ours," Damolos lamented.

Nolaro shared their anguish but snapped, "It doesn't matter, we can't do anything save run. We must head west-north-west, break through the perimeter and flee into the ash wastes."

Engar peered in the direction of the distant fortification and commented, "There's a Night Lord bunker right in our path."

"You would prefer to assault Iron Warriors in an entrenched position?" Nolaro rejoined.

"Night Lords it is," Damolos agreed hastily.

Nolaro led them away from the crash site and across the grey dust of the Urgall Depression. They kept low and did their best to go unnoticed. They were on the very edge of the battlefield and the traitors were focused mainly on the ongoing slaughter, but the danger was no less. If they were spotted hordes of enemies would descend and the trio would die swiftly. There was little to no cover but the XIXth excelled at stealth and they passed unnoticed, closing on a grey ferrocrete bunker marked with the icon of the winged skull. Dropped straight from orbit to create a cage around the Dropsite, a tactic the Iron Warriors favoured but one employed by all legions to a lesser extent, even the VIIIth. Before the drop assault it had seemed a prudent measure, to keep the rebels contained, but in hindsight it had been a deadly trap.

Nolaro led them as close as he dared and crouched to whisper, "If they see us we're done for, we'll have to do this one slow and quiet. Use all your skills to pass unseen, approach from three directions and…" His words were cut short as a flash of light erupted from a firing slit and Heavy Bolter rounds hammered forth. Nolaro and Engar hit the dirt instantly but Damolos took a round to the shoulder and went down in a spray of blood.

Another stream of Heavy Bolter rounds erupted, then another, three heavy weapons honing in on their position and chewing the ground to shreds around them. Dirt spraying his faceplate Nolaro snapped off a round in return but the distance was too great and his bolt merely hit grey Ferrocrete. More rounds inundated them and Engar shouted, "We're pinned!"

Nolaro snapped back, "I see that, prepare to charge!"

"Charge into that?!" Engar retorted, "We won't make it six steps."

"If we stay we die anyway. I'd rather die on my feet than on my belly!"

Engar concurred, "No argument here, let's do it."

"On the count of three," Nolaro , "One, two…"

Before he could finish the torrent of rounds cut off, stopping without warning. Nolaro was confused by the cessation but his bewilderment grew as he heard bolter fire from within the bunker, followed by the roaring of chainswords, hissing of energy weapons and cries of anger and surprise. Someone was inside the bunker, someone was fighting the Night Lords. For a heart-stopping moment Nolaro dreamed Corvus Corax had come to rescue them but as the fight raged on he knew it wasn't, a Primarch wouldn't take this long to kill his foes.

Nolaro kept his head down as the fight raged and called, "Damolos, you still breathing?"

"If I say no can I die in peace?" came the reply.

Nolaro was pleased to hear his voice and said, "Can you fight?"

"I lost an arm but thankfully I was holding my axe in the other hand," Damolos stated determinedly.

Suddenly the sound of fighting stopped and Nolaro looked up to see a hazy figure waving them over from the bunker's hatch. Warily he stood up but no ambush was sprung so he led them closer, wondering who had delivered them. He suspected a team of the Mor Deythan, the XIXth's elite infiltrators, or maybe even a Shadow Killer, those singular Brothers afflicted by Sable Brand and sent out to fight alone. Yet as they closed he saw something far more shocking.

Standing in the doorway was a lone Astartes. He was carrying a steaming plasma pistol in one hand and the other bore a crackling Lightning Claw. His plate was covered with smoky tints of darkness and adorned by feral fetishes while curved animal claws hung on a thin cord around his neck, clacking in the wind. The faceplate was fashioned into a feline skull, long fangs hanging from his snouted helm like a sabre-toothed tiger and his backpack boasted a spike topped by a human skull. A skinned face was pinned to the left pauldron, while the right bore the icon of a winged skull. He was a Legion Moritat, an VIIIth Legion assassin: a Night Lord.

Nolaro's bolter shot up but the Moritat raised his weapons and shouted, "Don't shoot, I'm on your side!"

Nolaro's aim didn't waver as he barked, "Why should I believe you?!"

The Moritat replied, "Because I hate Konrad Curze and I've always hated this wretched Legion. I only signed up to get off Nostromo, I would have done anything to get away from that hellhole but the Legion was no better. Nothing but haughty gang-lords and egotistical thugs. That's why I became a Moritat, to keep as far away as possible. If that's not enough, consider that I also I just killed a squad of my own to save you."

Damolos raised his one remaining arm, chainaxe spinning as he spat, "This is a trick. One Legionnaire stays true while all others betray us. You must think us fools!"

The Moritat protested, "I swear I didn't know what was going to happen. I operate alone and outside the chain of command. The first I knew of the plan was when my Legion started firing on you."

Nolaro wasn't convinced and said, "You may speak true, but I can't take that risk. Sorry, but I'm going to have to kill you."

Yet the Moritat replied, "You pull that trigger and the Iron Warrior's artillery will level this whole grid-sector. See I'm currently voxing a false all-clear signal. So long as I keep transmitting we will have an evacuation corridor to channel your Legion Brothers through. I can't keep it up for long though, the codes change frequently. In fourteen minutes the codes update and I can't access those. So choose quickly."

Engar hissed, "This is a trick, kill him."

"It's me or your Brothers," the Moritat stated bluntly.

Nolaro dropped his aim and said, "Leave him alive… for now."

"Good choice," the Moritat affirmed, "Thirteen minutes left."

Nolaro opened his vox and called, "The valley of life, by the Stars of Charon, the Gloaming." It was a call to all XIXth Legionnaires that an evac corridor was open, directions and that time was running out. Hopefully someone was still alive out there to hear his call. He had a brief chance to take control of the situation and salvage something from this debacle. If he could save one Brother it would be worth it, a few squads would be a miracle on this black day.

Nolaro turned to the Moritat and said, "We hold this position for twelve minutes then run like hell. What's your plan for surviving in the wastes?"

"Don't have one," the Night Lord confessed, "I was trusting you did."

"We'll deal with that when we have to," Nolaro groaned, "Looks like we're stuck together, so what do we call you?"

"The name is Sedaxus," the Night Lord said, "But I am better known as the Smoke Jaguar."