Wing Seven was all but a ruin. Burnt-out cells with empty windows stared into the blackness. Four thousand inmates had perished there, scourged by a fireball unleashed when the guards detonated the main gas supply. Corax had not anticipated this, and it was with bitter memories that he looked down at the blackened shell of the prison wing. It had taken more than a year to recover all of the bodies from the ash, babes and elders for the most part, Wing Seven having been a low security administrative complex.

Corax had scoured the security logs to find out the man responsible and had tracked down Corporal Theod Norruk four days later. The primarch’s revenge had been drawn out, a moment he was not proud of, but which had brought him a small sense of satisfaction at the time.

Only one building stood out as much as Ravenspire, connected by a silvery tunnel to the main edifice. The castle-like structure, with peaked roof and corner turrets, gleamed in the light of the setting star, silver and obsidian, a marvel of Imperial engineering. It was formally called the Primary Administration Core, but to the inhabitants outside its shining walls it was known as the Tax Keep. Corax would be addressing those who worked within later that night, but he had more pressing business to attend to first.

The Stormbird passed through the energy canopy of High Dock, Corax’s view becoming one of yellow static for a moment. He turned away from the window as the Stormbird’s jets whined into the final descent.

‘Do you know what you are going to say?’ asked Branne, sitting opposite the primarch. ‘I foresee it causing trouble, lord.’

‘Not yet,’ replied Corax. ‘Not every word. They will have to deal with the reality, there is no avoiding what must be done.’

‘It’s a complication we could do without,’ said the Commander of Recruits. Corax agreed but made no further comment.

The drop-ship touched down with a screech of metal landing pads on the ferrocrete.

‘A necessary action,’ muttered Corax, standing up as the drop-ship settled into place. The door hissed open behind him. ‘One that I would have performed without Malcador’s insistence.’

The pair departed the Stormbird and made their way the short distance to the Carnivalis, a hall near the bottom of Ravenspire that had been used for large gatherings of the Legion. It was part feasting chamber and part reliquary of the Legion’s many victories. Trophies of all kinds – weapons, skulls, armour, banners, even pieces of wall and armoured doors of enemy citadels – were hung upon the walls. There was little organisation to the display, which had once led Iterator Sermis Iconialis to remark that it looked more like the nest of a magpie than a raven.

That same individual now waited with one hundred and fifty-six other men and women in the Carnivalis, having been summoned there by Corax as the Avengerhad attained orbit. Along with his fellow iterator, Loc Nasturbright, Iconialis was accompanied by Deliverance’s remembrancers. Artists, poets, pictographers, sculptors and journalists gazed at Corax with a mixture of apprehension, suspicion and expectation as the primarch entered the vast hall. The small crowd was dwarfed by its surroundings and had gathered about the stage area and lectern at the far end of the hall, forcing Corax to walk the length of the Carnivalis before he could address them. He strode up the stairs to the stage, easily taking the steps four at a time, and turned towards the assembled remembrancers.

‘You are all to return to your quarters, pack up your personal belongings and prepare to leave Deliverance,’ he said. The announcement was met with shouts of condemnation, groans, pleas and general hubbub. ‘Quiet! I have not finished.’

The crowd was stilled as Corax raised his hand for silence.

‘Take everything. You will not be returning. All materials you have been compiling for the remembrancing are to be handed over to Commander Branne. You and your luggage will be searched thoroughly, do not attempt to smuggle out even a few rough notes or a doodled cartoon. Everythingis to be delivered to Branne.’

This caused further outcry, which Corax had been expecting. He caught the gaze of Iconialis, who gave a slight nod of understanding and turned to face the distraught and angry remembrancers. He lifted his hands, stilling the tumult.

‘Pray silence for the noble primarch,’ said Iconialis, his voice clear and precise, cutting through the few lingering grumbles and whispers. ‘I am sure there is good cause for this action. Let us not forget that it is by the grace of Lord Corax that we have remained here.’

‘Thank you, iterator,’ said Corax. He folded his arms and ran through what he had to say. Malcador’s last communication before the Avengerhad left orbit had been to dissolve the Order of Remembrancers and send them back to Terra for debriefing, in accordance with the Edict of Dissolution. The Sigillite had made it clear that Corax was not to discuss in detail the events that were currently overtaking the Imperium. He had also acknowledged that some explanation was necessary and had furnished the primarch with a few preferred phrases to convey what had happened. Corax dismissed the suggestions, preferring to say things in his own way.

‘Horus has rebelled against the Emperor,’ he said. There was no point in keeping the situation secret. Better that Corax told the remembrancers the bald facts than they heard half-truths and rumours. He waited, expecting another storm of surprise and protest, but instead his words were met with shocked silence. ‘You may have heard before Commander Branne left Ravenspire that a force of the Legiones Astartes had been despatched to confront the Warmaster at Isstvan. That confrontation did not end well. The Emperor gathers his forces and the Raven Guard will be amongst them. We cannot offer you protection here, so you will be removed from Deliverance and returned to Terra.’

‘I come from Assyri,’ called out a bearded man with a long cowl and paint marks on the sleeves of his loose tunic. Unlike his warriors and Legion attendants, Corax had never bothered to learn the names of most of the remembrancers, seeing them as an inconvenience at the best of times, and an irritation and distraction at the worst. ‘I don’t want to go to Terra.’

This was followed by several similar protests.

‘It is not for you to decide,’ said Corax. ‘We are not going to shuttle each of you back to your preferred choice of destination. You will all go back to Terra for debriefing by the offices of Malcador the Regent. There will be no exceptions.’

‘Why do you want all of our work?’ asked a young woman with a pictograph unit hanging on a strap around her neck. ‘We’ve worked for years gathering that material.’

‘Intelligence,’ Corax replied bluntly. ‘Many of you have mingled with remembrancers attached to other Legions, particularly the Luna Wolves. We will examine your accumulated material for insights into Horus’s rebellion.’

He did not add that the remembrancers had chronicled most of the Raven Guard’s accomplishments and victories, as well as the defences of Deliverance. He could not risk the ship transporting the remembrancers being taken by a traitor vessel with such information on board.

‘Just how bad is this?’ asked Iconialis, his voice losing its usual timbre, hushed with worry. ‘I mean… I do not know what to say. I can scarcely believe it.’

‘I won’t lie to you, iterator. War is coming, like nothing you’ve ever seen. A war that will tear the galaxy apart. A war between the Legiones Astartes.’

THE PRISONER WAITED patiently, bemused by his incarceration. He sat on a plain chair that was almost too small for him, dressed in a simple grey robe. He was being kept in an empty storage room not far from Alpha Terminal near the summit of Ravenspire. Corax had ordered the old punishment cells sealed forever after the revolution and it had seemed pointless to open up one of the vacant wings for one legionary. On a world that had once housed nearly ten million prisoners, the massive warrior looked incongruous amongst the metal shelves and cabinets; there was still a mop and bucket in the corner.