The terrified man was brought before the Raven, at first having urinated several times as he was led to where the glowering Primarch now stood. Corax, however, knowing the effect that he might have on the human, ordered him to be allowed to clean himself up.
Even so, changing into a fresh pair of clothes did not stop the trembling. The poor man thought that he was going to piss himself again, and though this time he did not, he could not bring himself to look up at the giant before him. The Astartes were giants in armour, but the man now standing with his arms folded was taller than that….a god; and all he could do was fall to his knees and on his face, terrified that this being was going to smite him down.
Corax felt his annoyance drain away into regret at the unusually desperate reaction as he altered his stance and told the man to rise, asking his name.
"Ba…Bauman, Lord."
"Is that your first or surname?" he asked.
"It is my name, Lord"
"Then, Bauman; perhaps you could tell us how you came by the suit of armour that had sat here?"
Bauman read the description and nodded. "We found it, Lord, three years ago."
"Where did you find it?"
Corax laid a map of the area he had conquered a few short hours ago on the table and waited as the nervous human took a long look at it. As the man studied the map, Corax took a look over him. The human was in his mid-forties, he guessed, his hair striped like volcanic ash, his skin a dark tone of brown, the only jewellery he wore a band on his ring finger.
Corax knew he did not understand the deeper significance of marriage. He would not have had the time to explore such feelings even if his gene-code had not had them expelled. Nonetheless, he had seen romantic relationships among the warriors in the Imperial Army under his command. On occasion he'd had the honour of binding two human warriors together. Corax understood that what Astartes did not need, humans did. He took no pleasure in keeping the man from his wife and family - but he needed to know where to go.
After a few moments, Bauman pointed to a region that appeared to be darker than any other area on the map. "The Mountains of Mourn. This is where we found it; we were relieved that there was no body, for only giants - " he paused for a moment, nervously looking around him - "only giants would wear that."
Corax did think, for a moment, of asking the man if he would escort them, but he was too scared as it was. Corax was not fond of frightening humans in such a fashion - better that his allies look up to him, and his foes never see him coming. Instead he asked him to discuss the route and then let him go back to his family. Branne watched the man almost ran out of the hall.
Agapito turned from his amused observance of the human and frowned as he saw the expression on his father's face. "Will you inform the Warmaster?" he reluctantly asked.
"When there is something to tell him, yes," Corax mused. "For now I want this kept to the Legion." Corax looked at the map. "Just me and you two; let's go."
The Emperor read the communications from Lorgar and Dorn. Lorgar would be continuing on his way, but Dorn was returning home, with Alpharius. The Emperor rubbed his jaw as Dorn outlined what Alpharius had actually said; Lorgar had also added a side message saying that, knowing how the Alpha Legion operated, he was not altogether certain that it was Alpharius.
The Emperor would know, he would always know; no matter how clever they were, what father did not know his own sons? It would be a few weeks before they arrived back here, and for the time he turned his mind to the mission he had given the Night Haunter.
He could have given this to Rogal or even Lorgar, but this was nearest to Konrad's niche, and he needed his most distant son to feel his importance. The Night Lords did what they had been wrought for, and very successfully indeed, but they had to be more than terrors. Perhaps when this mission had been fulfilled (for, he insisted to himself, it would be completed, and his fears would not come true), he would send Konrad after Amon, to get whatever Malcador had put in his Custode's head and bring Amon back into the fold. He had lost his oldest friend, and Amon was like a brother to Constantin. The two were always in each other's company….had always been, he corrected himself.
He had not wanted it that way; he did not want to lose his oldest friend and his own brother. There was no other psyker like Malcador; besides himself only Magnus could compare, and Magnus was now beyond his reach.
Why did he feel the need, in these times, to re-visit old ghosts? He had dealt with the Second and Eleventh, hadn't he? But something in the ether had told him otherwise. He had been communing with the other gods when he had sensed a change in the warp, a slight change and almost un-noticeable, but nevertheless a shift that was a tell-tale sign of one or two of his sons, ones that he had thought gone. Maybe Russ had not been as thorough as he had thought, perhaps the Wolf King could not bring himself to finish the task set out for him. That, though, was unlike Russ, and altogether the affair was quite puzzling. He could not leave Terra, not with the Webway needing constant vigilance and his Imperium needing his guiding light, so he had despatched Konrad to do the job he knew he would find more to his taste than anything else he had done lately.
He was certain it was just his own grief at what had happened playing tricks with his mind, but Russ had said that some escaped, and if that was the case he would offer them the hand of forgiveness, because it was becoming evident he needed all the warriors he could get. He knew Horus and his renegades would come to Holy Terra, it was inevitable, but he did not want it to be with the might of a conquered galaxy behind them. Better to have Horus's fleets trapped between a resurgent Imperium and the anvil of Sol. It would be a while, in any case. They would need to reclaim worlds for his rule, not to let too many fall into his misguided sons' hands.
As to the other reason he had assigned Curze this mission, he did not think of it.
He closed his eyes and sent his mind searching for Lorgar; there was something he needed the Urizen to sink his teeth into.
The Mountains of Mourn were well named. The rest of the planet was wet and marshy, which had caused some of the Imperial Army… or, rather, the human army... problems, but nothing unresolvable. But as soon as he and his two captains landed on the track that the human had shown them, they were hit by a fine, penetrating rain and fog that, in places, was so thick it even gave the Astartes problems seeing further than their hands.
"I wonder if this is how the sons of the Lion feel when it rains on Caliban," Agapito murmured as he tightened his grip on his bolter. "It's a wonder anyone makes a living on this swimming pool of a world."
"That's the strength of humankind, my son." Corax glanced at him. "To have the tenacity to make a living out of a world that does not give up its wealth easily."
Branne stopped as a roar echoed along the ridges. He shook his head. "Seems the wildlife may not want us here either, no wonder the caretaker did not want to come here."
They remained on alert, wondering if they would see the creature that had made that threatening noise, as they made their way along the paths. Around, they could see the huts of miners, though by the state of them they had been long ago abandoned. Whether it was through the mines drying up or whatever lived up here, none of them could say, but the cobwebs that stretched across the mines' entrance suggested either many decades of neglect or unusually large arachnids.
Branne murmured something about the Mechanicum wanting to make use of them, and so Agapito made a mental map of where each mine shaft they passed was, so that a full report could be given to the Mechanicum when they returned to the Shadow of the Raven. He didn't know if he would ever get used to calling her that, but like so much lately, he would have to get used to the changing tides.
They walked for a few kilometres. Branne had risen on his thrusters, but the fog made it difficult to see anything and so, for the sake of his sanity and safety, he had suggested they remain on foot. Corax had not seemed at all bothered about the walk; judging by the rare peaceful expression on his drenched face, he was thoroughly enjoying it.
His coal-black hair stuck to his handsome visage and his eyes took in everything around him. He was the Raven-Lord, and often he was happier in the skies, but sometimes it was nice to walk a world like this, to take in not its shape but its texture.
"Corvus." Agapito cleared his throat. He and his brother had been part of the Primarch's rebellion during the civil war that freed them from their overseers and when they were alone, they addressed their father by his first name. Never in the presence of others, though, for the bond the Raven-Lord had with the two brothers and the others who had fought to free Deliverance did not take precedence over the necessities of protocol. "Why do you suppose a member of the Second would be here?"
Corax stopped where and took in the blurred sights around him once more. He had wondered that himself and had tried to think of an answer; more to the point, why had the Astarte left his armour? Was he afraid that someone would see him in it and end his life in a meaningless cull? No Astartes knew fear, but they did have an aversion to pointless death. Death should come on the field of battle, at the hands of an enemy, not due the echoes of a conflict long ago lost.
Although as things were now, who was to say what death was pointless? "I don't know, Ag," he quietly replied, "perhaps he wanted to forget his past glories and humiliations, or perhaps he was injured or dying and could not bear to end in the armour that had ended his honour? I do not know, but if the humans found no remains, then he may yet live."
As Corax spoke, Branne rounded a corner and came face-to-face with one of the biggest creatures he had ever seen. Even crouched, it stood about five meters tall with a long, snake-like neck that was nevertheless thicker than even an Astarte neck. Its head was horned and reminiscent of the Salamanders' sigil, with rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth. It walked on its hind legs, two powerful muscle-laden limbs that ended with claws clearly designed to rend flesh from bone. Its two arms seemed strangely misshapen and out of place on a large body, for they looked like the arms of a young adult human.
"Now we know why the mines are empty," Corax signed as he looked up.
The three men attacked, but it was not going to be an easy fight, for despite its bulk the monster was far more agile than they believed. Agapito, attempting an attack from behind, was sent hurtling into the rocks to his side so quickly he didn't even notice the blow. His armour protested at the force by blinking its runes at him. If he did not know better, he would have said it was swearing at him, but as it was he was winded and had to fight to stay conscious.
He got to his feet in time to see his brother, with his arms round the neck of the beast, being swayed about like some bizarre dance partner. His swearing came in short gasps and, as he raised his arm to dig his talons in, he was unceremoniously deposited high into the trees. If the fight had not been so dangerous Agapito would have laughed at it.
But then he saw why it was that Corax was their Primarch, their lord, and their father. He descended from the clouds above like a black lei-angel of ancient texts. His arms were outstretched, and the Raven's Talons shone despite the dull weather. He looked the beast in the eye and, with two lightning strikes, the battle ended. The monster's left eye disappeared in blood and gore as the talons ripped it out, while the right side of the head seemed to simply vanish. The beast did not die straight away; blinded and too hurt to continue, it wandered off.
Agapito made to follow it, but Corax stopped him. "Let it go; it has a right to die where it wants."
Branne came back, brushing his armour of the twigs and leaves that had attached like limpets to him. "Well, that's why there are no more miners."
"I don't see how humans would satisfy something like that." His brother removed his helm and scratched his forehead.
"It would have taken the livestock too," Branne added. "When we were battling in area designate 43, there were some sizable creatures the natives were using as mounts."
Corax let them have their discussion; something else had caught his eye. Had they not been looking they might not have found it, but the opening in the rocks was hidden only well enough to draw the Primarch's gaze. When the brothers realised that their Primarch had wandered off, they looked around and found the opening themselves. With a sigh, they both followed him, catching up with his thoughtful wanderings quickly enough. Branne almost wanted to tell him off, but thought better of it; after all, Corax, like his own brothers, did basically what he wanted. They activated their armours' lights as the darkness enveloped them and, for the first time since coming on this trek with their father, they felt comfortable. Darkness worked with them and for them - that was the only equation to the Night Lords they agreed with.
Corax said nothing, his thoughts sunken in memory. The Sons of Hades had always been a little different to their cousins. Their world was a vision of hell, partially tidally locked against its host star; in places it had oceans of magma, and in others sudden cold fronts froze people solid. Its seas were acidic enough to challenge even Astarte endurance... but for all of that, perhaps it would have been little worse than Fenris or Caliban, if not for its pre-Imperial culture, which before the coming of Charion... there, he had admitted it. Charion, his brother, whom he had made himself forget. If Mortarion was the master of death, then Charion had been its keeper.
His sons fought through terrains too harsh for other Legions. Their endless battles, and their ability to keep themselves alive in those battles, had won them laurels. Back then only the Luna Wolves had freed more systems than they had, and for a time they were the largest Legion. The Sons of Hades did more than survive in such conditions, though - they thrived, using alien ecosystems to their advantage, working fluidly together in ways Corax had found himself studying.
But Charion had been raised in a dismal tyranny dedicated to celebrating human suffering, and though he had destroyed that regime, it had left scars on him - not physical, for he'd been adopted by one of the ruling diabli-clans, but mental. In time, he stopped believing that their father was the rightful ruler of mankind. More and more, he had spoken about how he disagreed with the Emperor's edicts, about how no being had the right to absolute power. It was a view that had even Corax, who should have been the first to sympathize with Charion, incensed, for this was their father he was denouncing. But it was the Lion, in the end, who started the road to ruin for the Second.
Charion, for all his tactical fluidity, ultimately placed great value on the truth; he had his honour and his martial pride. Much the same could be said of the Lion. The two Primarchs did not like each other, but they worked well together in a strategic sense, and so collaborated on a number of campaigns. But after one such victory, a joint compliance against orks, Charion had gone too far in his criticism, and - though the precise words that were spoken Corax still did not know - the Lion had told him he had no place in the Imperium if this would be how he would talk about their father. In the end they came to blows, as did their sons. It was different to the fight between Curze and Dorn; this was all-out war, Legion turned against Legion, though it had ended inconclusively. The Wolves of Fenris were sent to bring the Sons in peacefully, but Charion refused to face what he saw as his father's one-sided justice. Russ had let slip that Charion said he would do fine without him, or anyone else.
What had come after had been a mystery. Russ had refused to speak of it, but the Wolf King was not quite the same after that. Corax had respected Charion a great deal, but he was not close to him. The translucent-haired Primarch had few true friends; Mortarion could perhaps claim the closest bond, while Angron, Perturabo, and Sanguinius had more distant ones. But all the same, Charion also tried to make no enemies among his brothers, at first. The glory days of the Second Legion, which had already been fading when Corax had been found...
He returned to the present, locking his memories away once more. The feelings of unease he felt in the memories were not hard to trace; it seemed, now, that Charion had been more right than even he had known. As it was, Corvus Corax focused himself on the job at hand. If any of the Sons of Hades had survived, this was a time to forgive and to extend the hand of brotherhood. No matter what else was going on, there had never been a time when unity was more needed.
The Hand of Deliverance flew through the ocean of stars as if it deserved to be there. Within the battle-barge, the 61st Company of the Raven Guard Legion was enjoying a rare span of freedom, and the peace of the moment afforded the Commander a moment or two to reflect on what was happening.
He did not know what to do; as a Terran-born Astarte given the gene-seed of Corax he had always had a duty to the Emperor, but, unlike many of his Terran brothers, his loyalty was to Corax, the man whose ideal and image he was modelled on. He had always been one of the most loyal to the Raven-Lord among the Terran Raven Guard, but even aside from all that, he did not believe in what the Emperor was doing. If he had thought there would be a good outcome to these changes... well, there was no use dwelling on yesteryears. He had made that choice, and he had the blood of a brother on his hands to prove it.
As a child he had grown up in a community that had been one of the last to ditch the religious icons of the past. Some of his village had taken longer to accept that there were no gods and that there was no single being of supernatural and omnipotent power to carve mankind's destiny; the futures they had, man and woman themselves had made. Now everything he had been conditioned to believe had disposed of like some worn out axim. That was what distressed him most, even more than the war that had followed. And those later news were themselves grim - Magnus was crippled by Angron and the Khan was dead at the hands of Vulkan, Prospero was gone, Mars under the stewardship of the Gorgon, and Lorgar was Pope… Pope, such an absurd title for a Primarch, even one as zealous as Lorgar. Malcador was dead, replaced by the Praetorian, whom the Captain had thought better of.
It was all so bizarrely unexpected and so desperately unwelcome. But it was true. That much, he could not deny.
Captain Anteau Shierek was snapped from his musings by the sound of the proximity alert going off, and as he began ordering for information he had an uneasy feeling wash over him. On the screen where only the star field had been visible, with the system's most stable Mandeville point still an hour of travel away, a rift suddenly opened and a Legion capital ship came through, in midnight clad. He felt a mix of his hearts jumping at the sight and bile rising in his throat as he realised what it was.
"Night Lords," Sergeant Uneses breathed slowly beside him.
"Not just any Night Lords, old friend," Captain Anteau Shierek swallowed heavily, "but the Night Lord. That's the Nightfall, and that means…."
"Curze," Uneses snarled.
"Have they seen us?"
"No, Lord, they are continuing on their course. The cloaking held."
"I want vox silence and I want only essential systems running," he ordered.
"What are you planning, Brother-Captain?"
The captain looked at his sergeant, a grim expression on his face. "I want to see what they are doing, and I want to see what is so important that the Night Haunter himself has been despatched, whether for war alone or something more."
"Shouldn't we inform our Father?"
"Cal, when it is safe to do so without them picking it up, I will do so immediately, but until then we will recon the situation... and maybe we will get to settle an old score."
"Corax wants that honour, brother," his sergeant warned.
"I am not stupid," Shierek snapped. "I am not about to take on a Primarch alone. But I want to finally show that the Raven Guard are the true masters of the dark, not some deranged lunatics who obsess over fear and torment."
Uneses shook his head. His Captain had thirsted for revenge against the Night Lords after the death of the 152nd Company. He suspected it was because his genetic cousin had died there, the only link to a past that he had all but forgotten. They said, in other Legions, that the sons of Deliverance were stubborn, but Uneses had always found that among the Raven Guard, the greatest stubbornness was found among the sons of Terra - and those few among them who had both survived and remained loyal to Corax, like his captain... those were the most stubborn of all. If Shierek wanted vengeance, Uneses could do little to corral him.
Despite those misgivings, Calastros Uneses stood behind his captain's command throne and watched as the Hand of Deliverance went silent in observing the path of the Night Lord flagship, it would be good to get revenge for the fallen brothers, but it would also serve no purpose if another company was lost. And Uneses knew what it was like to lose his brothers, knew it better than anyone in the ship.
Corax stopped as they came out of the opening and into a rain-sodden, fog-laden valley that might, before its abandonment, have been paradise. Branne was now muttering about how he was fed up with the rain, for although he was not about to catch cold, he still did not feel comfortable walking when he felt better suited to the air.
Corax understood that sentiment. They were the Raven Guard, and they were of the sky; even Horus had admitted that the Raven Guard were the best of the best when it came to the assault, strike, and stealth tactics they used. That the Raven Guard were better-suited to aerial assaults did not mean that they were incapable of ground attacks, for they were just as ferocious as any of the Legions in that area. Nonetheless, a slog like this was, he knew, not in keeping with the training of his sons, nor indeed their mindset. But he was determined to see this through, if for no other reason than his curiosity about the armor.
They trekked across the marshlands, the mud caking their power armour, though it did nothing to slow them down. He was about to give up the search when a large shape loomed out of the thick, white shroud like death itself. As they neared the object they saw that it was a vessel, and an Astarte ship at that.
"That explains why it is so forlorn here," Agapito observed. "Its crash must have done a great deal of damage, wildlife and civilization both..."
Corax didn't speak. He was too busy looking over the stricken vessel. There were great rents in her sides like a whale being attacked by sharks; he could see the image in his head now, crew members, engineering crews and their overseers, naval officers, even Astartes being blown out into the cold vacuum of space. Astartes would survive a little longer thanks to their gene-enhancements, but even those were finite. Something had hit this vessel and hit her hard, and between accident and war, Corax suspected war. Certainly, though, it had been here for far more than three years. The undergrowth had started to make her part of the landscape, lichen and moss creeping upwards in green abundance. A few trees had surrounded it like ancient guardians, and any hole in the hull had branches growing in or out of it. Vines came down, curling themselves around wrecked conduits and pipes like slender lovers in an eternal tryst. The two captains and their Primarch father had to cut their way through the overgrowth, until they eventually found their way through to a clearer path.
There as a feeling of foreboding in the air, like they were trespassing in a place that they did not belong. The dead lingered here, and as they made their way through, Corax thought he could see ghostly replays of the crews' day to day life as well as their deaths. Of course that was ridiculous, but he would not ridicule it - for the Warp was without a doubt thin here.
None of them spoke; too many people had died here for them to desecrate that grave. It was a form of respect some would disagree with, but that did not stop the feeling. They all could picture the last moments of the ship and its crew; it was not hard, for they had all seen the effects void warfare had. Sometimes it was worse than the bloodiest ground assault - no chance to see the enemy's face, not even their ships, before a torpedo came from light-minutes away to spill their doom. Branne rarely gave the lower decks a thought when aboard Raven Guard ships, yet now he was forced to contemplate the lives of those workers on a ship of the Second Legion. They worked hard, in harsh conditions, with life expectancy often lower than in the Imperial Army. They made their own rules, pieced together their own culture, of which Branne could see traces - cards, picts, graffiti.
Here and now, sensing on some level the horrific deaths that the thousands of men and women who had lived, worked, and loved on these decks had gone through, he could not help but look down in shame at whether he did enough for his own ship's crew; he could see the same thoughts running through Agapito's mind. True, it was better than life on a Navy ship in terms of conditions, if more dangerous - but the ships of the Imperium were space cities, and it would not do to forget that.
They paused as they entered the upper part of the ship, occupied by the Astartes. As they entered the largest hall on the vessel, Corax muttered something beyond his sons' hearing. When they entered, Agapito and Branne felt their breaths be taken away, as Corax fell, swaying, to his knees.
The hall was a great bronze vault, hundreds of meters across, sepulchral in its majesty. Shades of orange, maroon, and black surrounded them, as if the Raven Guard stood in the middle of a great bonfire. Broken chains, one of the Second's symbols, lined the walls, and an intricate spiral on the floor drew the eye unerringly to the room's center.
In it, a giant glass coffin stood upright. Within it, his arms folded across his chest, two coins over his eyes, was a giant. The chest wounds that killed him were obvious, and Corax recognized his brother in a heartbeat.
"Charion," Corax breathed, and bowed his head.
He was scared, of that there was no doubt. As the Lord of the Night stood before him once more, he could feel the fear in his pent-up body being leeched out into him, a vampire taking the last drop of blood from a body when there was seemingly no more to be had. And - was the father of the Night Lords growing before his eyes? He shook his head to clear the image; as big as a Primarch was, he did not want to think that what his eyes were telling him was true. It was a trick, surely: being on a ship that had constant low lighting to replicate the eternal night of Nostramo had stated to take a toll on his eyes.
Curze eased his giant frame into the chair across from his guest and took stock of the quarters that had been given to their passenger. When Curze had picked him up several weeks ago, he had been a strong-willed man, worthy of being the so-called Keeper of Shadow, a guardian of the secret that had been passed to him from his father and his father's father. Now, he looked like prey caught in a hunter's lights.
"You are being treated well." Curze's deep and dangerous voice always appeared to be on the edge of sanity. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't, but he was not to be ignored either way. His strength was legendary, his temperament changeable, and his deeds things of dark myth in the greater Imperium. If you did not want to meet the Night Haunter side of him, you had to stay on the side of Konrad Curze. Garvan Polarick had heard the fearful whispers of other humans that Konrad Curze and the Night Haunter were two separate entities living in one body. In truth, Polarick was not even sure they were truly distinct personalities, rather than masks - but he would much prefer not to think about any of that.
"Yes, my lord," he whispered.
"Sit up," Curze amiably spoke. "I come to you in peace; no need to cower like a child, sit tall and proud as I know your family to be." Curze handed him a tankard. "Try some Nostraman Ale; not as powerful as some, but certainly potent. No methanol like in the moonshine the sons of Fenris drink either."
Polarick took the drink and sat taller, but not so tall as to display arrogance. Even if the Primarch pretended to treat him as an equal, the scene was set up so that Polarick had a hard time remembering he was even human. He was in his mid-forties, but time in the Night Lords' company had aged him. His brown hair was lank and had lost its life, but his grey eyes held the knowledge given to him, knowledge that right now he wished had never been passed onto him.
"Tell me, Garvan," Curze adjusted his position, "why were your family chosen to be the keepers?"
Polarick did not want to look at the pale-faced giant across from him; it merely awakened the realm of nightmares that had haunted his sleep, and his waking hours for that matter, since he had been brought aboard the Nightfall - nightmares that had little to do with Curze. But no matter how hard he tried to block out the mass of genetic perfection, he could not. In the dingy lighting of the Nightfall, the Night Haunter seemed to rise and swell, as if he were not merely the master of the shadows but part of them.
"My great-grandfather was witness to the fate of the two who shall not be remembered," Polarick miserably replied. In an age of reborn superstition, it seemed fitting that he use such language.
"No human was present," Curze responded.
"My great-grandfather was Fenris-born; his great-great uncle had been chosen to be one of the warriors of Fenris, and he walked beside them as an auxiliary Kaerl. Because of his memory, he was chosen by the Emperor to bear witness, an honour that any man should feel and not refuse."
"The Emperor's own record-keeper, then?"
"Yes, Lord. Jovan saw everything that happened, even took part in it, and as per the All-Father's wishes he kept an eidetic memory record, before being asked to keep it secret to pass it onto the eldest son only, should the memory of those days be again needed."
"The Keeper of Shadow. I would have thought it would have been an Astarte."
"That was precisely why He chose a human."
"So, why do you not live on your ancestral world?"
"I was born on the ice world of Holdarth. I left when I was sixteen; the memories locked in my mind are driving me insane, moreso when I stay on one world too long."
Curze smiled a little. "You are in good company, then."
Polarick did not know what to make of that, so said nothing. He kept his gaze fixed on the table and started patting his shirt down.
"Missing something?"
"My tabac sticks," he whispered.
Curze turned and made a motion to the woman by the door; she bowed her head and, reaching into her top pocket, took a fresh pack and lighter out of her pocket and lay them on the table. Curze motioned with his head and she left them alone. The Primarch watched as with shaking hands, Polarick lit his tabac stick and drew in a long steadying breath.
"So tell me how these secrets were imprinted into you. Are you a psyker?"
Polarick made the sign of warding and shook his head vigorously. "When I was ten I was taken to a Mechanicum facility on Luna, where a meme was placed inside my skull that downloaded the secrets of two Legions into my mind. The meme dissolved quickly; my memories did not."
Curze had suspected as much. He could see why the Emperor chose a human now, aside from obscurity: an Astarte might have thought to make use of this information to further themselves, but a human would have been too scared of the repercussions of betraying an edict that came from the Emperor himself.
"Tell me, Garvan, why would the Emperor want a record of that which even we Primarchs do not speak of?"
Polarick arched an eyebrow and looked up for the first time since he had started talking to the dark Primarch. "I thought you knew, Lord, you being sent by the Emperor and all… it's the gene-seed."
Curze sat back, letting a hiss escape his throat. Now that was very interesting indeed...
Corax closed his eyes as his hand touched the casket, muttering an apology-remembrance to his lost brother. He did not expect what happened next. In an instant, his consciousness was filled with the images of the Primarch's final days, days whose promised seemed fulfilled today. He gasped aloud and sank to his knees, overwhelmed by what he was seeing. Branne and Agapito made to rush to his side, but he snarled at them to stay away. Shocked by the venom in their fathers' voice, the two genetic brothers stepped back; all they could do was watch as Corax relieved his brother's last moments…
"Is this what you are reduced to now, Leman, being the Emperor's assassin?"
Charion was an imposing figure. His jet-black armour was lined with orange trim, and the symbol of a three-headed dog forged a clasp that held his dark red cloak in place. In his left hand was what looked like a bolter made from the darkest black metal; Soul Keeper, the weapon had been named and for good reason, for anyone shot with it was surrounded in a dark light and immolated in a manner some claimed to be psychic. It was a painful and horrific death, one that even Astartes did not fancy being on the end of, for then their legacy stored in their gene-seed would be gone, almost as if they had never existed. Many of the Rout had met that end today. In his right hand, Chario held a mighty power-trident, forged by the hands of the Gorgon himself. It was balanced, sharp, and deadly, able to cut through power armour like a knife through butter or rend human flesh into tattered bloody strips. His glass-like hair sat in a single punk strip and was tied into a tight ponytail, at the end of which was a metal morningstar ball already bloody from the lives he had taken. They had come to his homeworld, sent by his bastard father to try them for crimes that had been perceived as dangerous to the stability of the Imperium.
"The Imperial Truth is the law, Charion," Russ evenly said. "You are to bring the worlds you bring to illumination into the Imperial Truth; no gods, no magic, all manners of faith to be destroyed, only faith in themselves and the Imperium. Yet you have left that job undone, left worlds behind that are no more compliant than they were before the Sons of Hades came."
Charion's white eyes lit up with mirth. Those eyes were pure white, pupil-less; why, Russ did not know. All he knew was he was here to bring his brother and nephews in, and even now that they had refused and spilled blood, he still wished to reach an accord with his brother.
"You and I both know that this has nothing to do with that, it's to do with my beating of the Lion," Charion snarled. "He does not like to be made to look a fool."
"I don't blame you for that," Russ conceded, "but I do blame you for the deaths of his sons. You tried to humiliate him, and in the process damaged Unity itself. This subversive, uncontrolled behavior... the Emperor could not let it stand."
"Hah!" Charion spread his arms wide as he uttered his sarcastic laugh. "Then where is my accuser? Too wrapped up in his own machinations to come and accuse me to my face?"
"He is around," Russ mysteriously said.
"My work has brought more worlds under Terra's banner than even your own Legion. I am a son of the Imperium, Wolf King. But I know what Father will become - a mad god, drunk with power, who would see all that does not conform to his will destroyed! Like every tyrant in the history of humanity!"
"Enough, Charion. It's not too late. Lay down your arms, come in with me, and I will stand by you, brother. Order your elite to stand down."
"I will do no such thing…."
The Second Primarch hefted his trident and threw it as if it were no more than a javelin. Russ dodged out the way and then turned as he heard what sounded like a mechanised scream. Brother Haffinjer, a respected warrior interned into a Dreadnought half a century ago, writhed as the trident struck deep into his sarcophagus, the fluid that suspended his mangled body slipping from the broken tomb he called home. Russ stared, uttered a disbelieving shout, and launched himself at his brother. Haffinjer was not the first of his sons to die today, but Russ would do his best to ensure he would be the last.
The two Primarchs fought like gods of old, the ground shaking as blow after blow landed. Russ, caught in the rage of a beast, mourning his sons' deaths, gritted his teeth as spittle flew from his parted lips. His canines elongated, ready to tear out his enemies' throat.
Charion was no weakling and, for each blow the Wolf King landed, he landed one twice as hard. Blood flowed from rents in their respective armours, and blade clashed against blade. Around them, the Wolf Guard fought the Pentagram, yet the two Primarchs barely paid attention to it. The fight was utterly chaotic, both Primarchs switching weapons at a moment's notice. Yet in the end, it was Charion who was knocked back, his breastplate cracked. Russ had only a moment's opening, but he was the Lord of Winter and War, and that was more than enough. He let a roar erupt from his lips and drove his clenched fist full-force through Charion's shattered breast-plate and, with a yank, pulled out both his hearts.
Charion sank to his knees, his body going into shock and his eyes focusing on the two dripping hearts that were clenched in Russ's massive fist. Russ lost his rage and, stunned at what he had done, he dropped to one knee and tried to stuff the hearts back inside his brother's body.
"I am sorry, Char, I am sorry."
Charion's eyes flickered as his body convulsed. He looked up to see a golden-armoured warrior above him, and Russ raised his head.
"Father… can't you save him…"
The Emperor, or perhaps merely the projection of the Emperor, looked down stoically; Charion gave a bloody half-smile and died without a word as his sons closed ranks around him.
Corax finally moved from the sarcophagus, amazed at what he had seen, it wasn't just the violence of his brother's death, but also the expression on his father's face. The Emperor had looked at Russ with an expression that Corax himself had worn more than once towards his sons - a father commiserating a son's first kill. But towards Charion, the Emperor showed merely an uncaring and indifferent visage. It was like looking upon the face of a different man.
Had the Second Legion's Primarch seen what was to come? It was true that each of them had some part of their father's abilities, but it had manifested stronger in some sons than in others. Curze, Sanguinius, Lorgar, and of course Magnus were known to have an echo o their father's psychic power. He did not know if Charion had ever been that strong, but if what he had just seen was to be believed, his brother had reached out from beyond the veil, unless it was the Second Legion's Librarians that had prepared this.
I committed no sin, Corvus; I was marked for death for knowing what he would become.
Corax span around as the voice entered his mind unbidden; he glanced at his two sons, who were continuing with their work, before making their way to his brother's tomb.
You are still alive?
He got no answer, not then and not after. Branne called him over and showed him a data slate; Corax took it and took one last look around him.
"We will leave him here," he finally said. "This is befitting a tomb as any, one built by his own sons, and I cannot see anyone else finding him."
"What about the armour, Lord?" Agapito asked.
"I suspect it was thrown from the ship when it crashed here." Corax sighed. "The crew and Astartes that were here are all dead; they were the last of his sons that remained loyal, and I suspect they wanted to get him away, mourn him. Yet the Rout boarded, and... I am surprised they even reached this world. Yet they did, and Russ left this cruiser as a mausoleum. A Legion's last memorial."
Corax sat in the seclusion of his private sanctum, looking over the still sealed data packet. He hadn't opened it, too disturbed by the voice he heard. Had Charion been a seer who knew what was going to happen to him? Did he know what was going to happen to the Emperor, or the fate of his Legion? To have his sons either dead, incarcerated or split across the other Legions, most notably the Ultramarines? So many questions and not enough answers.
With a sigh he got up and stood before the holo-communicator. He waited and then, when he was ready, Horus and Sanguinius stood before him, though in reality they were half a system away. Corax was stunned by how drained Horus looked. The Warmaster was having to deal with his father's madness, but on that was compounded the feud with Roboute, and now, surely, myriad lesser problems at this council.
Sanguinius, as ever, looked his noble and resplendent self. Of them all, even Horus proclaimed that Sanguinius was the best of them all, that he should have been Warmaster. It was something that the Angel of Baal always refuted. As Horus's closest brother and confidant, he felt his role best served as his brother's conscience.
"Greetings, Raven-Lord." Horus inclined his head. "What is wrong, brother?" The unasked question was why he had come here, yet remained cloaked and unannounced. The answer was that Corax needed to talk with one of his brothers about this, and Horus and Sanguinius were closest.
"Horus, Sang," Corax returned the greeting. "You might want to sit down, for I have something I need to discuss with you."
By the time he had finished his tale, his brothers were staring at him, jaws agape. Corax stepped back a little and, pressing a side rune, the armour they had retrieved came into the light of his brothers' views.
"Was he still alive, Cor?" Horus asked, using the affectation that his closest sons used in private. In that moment Corax finally felt his brother treating him as an equal, if only because for the first time Horus truly needed him.
"No, Horus. I gave him a warrior's funeral, and left him there with his fallen sons."
Horus closed his eyes.
"What happened to the Sons of Hades' gene-seed?" Sanguinius asked.
Corax shrugged. "I assumed it was destroyed or put in with Gulliman's stock."
Horus rubbed his brow. "The Emperor alone knows, and he will want it, I would if I were him. Cor, if you won't stay here, could you find out where our lost nephews' gene-seed is? We can't let it fall into their hands."
That, as it happened, was what he had planned anyway. "Especially if the rumours were to be believed," Corax added. "You can count on me, Warmaster… brother."
Horus smiled a little. "Fate be with you, Corax."
"And you, Horus."
Corax stepped back and returned to his seat. The rumours about the Sons' other abilities seemed to be true. On the field of battle, they could vibrate through reality itself and emerge behind enemy lines, making their attacks almost even more unpredictable and unstoppable. Corax did not want to think about what would happen if the Imperials got their hands on that ability.
He finally touched the runes on the side of the data packet and, as his genetic code was entered into the memory banks, the screen resolved itself, and Corax found himself reading the intimate thoughts of First Captain Cerona. He reclined and, once more, looked into the forgotten darkness of the first time Astarte had fought Astarte...