Beyond the wall the Therions were advancing again, taking revenge on the Emperor’s Children who had slaughtered their fellows. Though their lasguns were not as powerful as their foes’ bolters, their weight of fire and tenacity was driving the traitors back towards the gates.
Lord Corax circled once, no doubt taking stock of the battle’s progress, before he landed a little ahead of Navar. The primarch pointed towards the centre of the city, to where the central tower of the Perfect Fortress soared more than three hundred metres above the buildings surrounding it. Navar looked to where Corax gestured and saw thousands of Raven Guard pouring out of drop-pods around the tower. He recognised the beak-faced Mark VI armour of the first Raptors as they led a charge against the central citadel, alongside loping and shuffling warriors of the last generation. Bolters, plasma and laser scoured the gardens and porticos of the enemy installation. Other legionaries, from the Hawks and Talons, jumped down from hovering Thunderhawks to set up crossfires on rooftops and inner walls, cutting down the retreating Emperor’s Children. Stormbirds looped slowly, their guns blazing at pockets of resistance, reserves of more Raven Guard inside ready to commit to the fight.
It was a joyous sight, the whole Legion acting in concert, and Navar understood why his primarch was grinning.
‘NOT SO PERFECT,’ said Agapito.
Corax had gathered his command council in the chambers of the garrison commander. It reminded him of the officers’ mess hall on Lycaeus where he had decided to use the atomic charges on Kiavahr. The carpet underfoot was thick, the walls panelled with red lacquered wood. Finely sculpted statues stood on marble plinths around the edge of the room.
‘We certainly can’t hold it,’ said Branne.
An exquisite alabaster bust of Fulgrim toppled to the floor with a dull crash as the commander leaned deliberately against its pedestal. Glancing down at the fragments, Branne dropped a heavy foot onto the remnants, crushing them into the carpet. ‘You know that Horus will respond.’
‘I am counting on it,’ said Corax. ‘We will not be here.’
‘So what was the point?’ demanded Valerius. He looked like a child, sitting in a deep armchair made for one of the Legiones Astartes, his feet off the ground. Behind him, his aide had salvaged a decanter of wine from a cabinet and was hunting for an intact glass amongst the ruin of shattered cupboards and shelves. ‘A lot of Therions died just to hand this world back to the traitors.’
‘We’re leaving, you’re not,’ said Corax. ‘The rest of your Cohort will be arriving, nearly five hundred thousand men. The Legio Vindictus has already departed from Kiavahr with a dozen Titans. Other Imperial Army elements are also on their way, nearly a million more soldiers. Horus will be getting a hot welcome if he does come here.’
‘So we stay here and keep fighting?’ said Valerius. ‘You have levelled half of the defences.’
‘It won’t come to that, sub-Caesari,’ said the primarch. He stared out of the window, watching smoke drift over the ornate towers and gardens. ‘The Raven Guard are leaving, but not for Deliverance. Khalghorst is our next target. There is a Word Bearers garrison there. We’ll have hit them before Horus even has word of what has happened here.’
Corax turned and looked at his commanders.
‘This is not the Great Crusade. There is no compliance, no garrisons. We fight as the Raven Guard always have. We fight and we withdraw. We hit hard and elude the counter-blow. There are others that will stand and take the brunt of the traitors’ fury, and they have my sympathy, but this war will not be won with kind regards. And we will rebuild our numbers, slowly as before, but growing stronger as our enemies are weakened. The traitors allowed the Raven Guard to survive, and that will prove a costly mistake.
‘We will take this war to Horus wherever and whenever we can and we will bleed his forces dry. We cannot win this war alone, but we will ensure he wins no quick victory.’
EPILOGUE
ABOARD THE ALPHA, Omegon walked to his shared chamber without thought, his feet guiding him through the corridors and levels without conscious effort. He knew that Horus had accepted the gene-data, which left him with just one more loose end to tie up.
Entering the quarters, Omegon was immediately confronted by Athithirtir, the alien’s enviro-globe bobbing around in agitation.
+I sense that you are being duplicitous.+
‘Your sense is annoyingly correct,’ said Omegon, sitting on the bunk so that his face was level with the gas-filled sphere.
+It is unwise to pass on the primarch genetic material to Horus. It will alter the balance of power in his favour. You risk giving victory to the Primordial Annihilator.+
‘Then it is fortunate that the data we handed over is flawed,’ said Omegon. ‘Fabius will never perfect the technology. The servants of the Primordial Annihilator will expend countless lives and endless hours in the pursuit of the impossible.’
+I sense that you are feeling proud of this conclusion. You are hiding something from me.+
‘Your empathic ability is becoming tiresome,’ said Omegon. ‘We no longer need an envoy from the Cabal. We are capable of determining our own fate from now on.’
+That is not an option. The Cabal must steer this war to the correct conclusion. To do otherwise risks victory for the Primordial Annihilator. You are being disobedient.+
‘We do that a lot,’ said Omegon. He stood up and grabbed the globe in one gauntleted hand. Anti-grav motors gave out a high-pitched whine as the sphere struggled against the primarch’s grip.
+This vessel is impervious to you and your weapons. Your attempt to harm or threaten me is pointless.+
‘I am not going to hurt you at all, my gas-filled friend,’ said Omegon.
He walked to the doorway and keyed open the lock. Leaving his quarters, the primarch headed for the closest conveyor. Athithirtir screeched all the way as they rode the elevator down to the docking levels, but Omegon had already issued orders to ensure there was no other soul along their route. The area around dock four was empty. Passing through the armoured door, Omegon walked between the secured Thunderhawks lined up on each side of the flight deck.
+I do not understand your intent. Your behaviour is unacceptable.+
‘I am simply taking you to your ship,’ said Omegon, letting go of the globe. Athithirtir floated up out of reach, ranting unintelligible curses at the primarch.
+I do not detect my ship.+
‘I am sure it will be here,’ said Omegon. He walked back towards the doors. ‘Maybe in a century or two.’
Sealing the doorway behind him, Omegon opened a communications frequency.
‘Dock four control, this is your primarch. Open inner and outer doors immediately, full atmospheric cleanse.’
‘Affirmative, lord,’ came the reply.
Warning sirens blared while Omegon imagined the huge armoured portal shielding the flight deck opening, revealing the field of stars outside. The air would blow out like a hurricane, taking the intrusive little alien with it. Content that his task was complete, he headed back to his quarters. There was still a lot more to be done. With the gene-tech secured in the Alpha’svaults, in time his warriors would truly be legion.