‘Fool,’ said Delerax, smiling at the weapons officer. ‘A rudimentary mistake. One should turn into a torpedo attack, protecting the engines. A novice, no doubt.’
Blue and purple lightning flickered as the remaining warheads, several hundred of them, slammed into the strike cruiser’s shields. The vessel was engulfed by a blaze of detonations, so bright it appeared on the main display like a nova being born. More explosions followed as the shields overloaded and the remaining warheads struck the cruiser’s armoured hull. Plasma billowed from a ruptured engine duct.
A moment later the mini-screen vanished as the warhead launchers detonated.
‘Scanners confirm severe engine damage and moderate damage to the starboard gunnery decks.’
‘Signal the flotilla, close in for the kill,’ replied Delerax.
‘Receiving transmission from Legion command,’ declared a communications aide. ‘Strapped with a priority subsignal.’
‘On speakers,’ replied Delerax, not moving his eyes from the screen.
The bridge hissed with static and a series of coded beeps and buzzes sounded before a bass voice broke across the noise. Delerax’s attention was immediately fixed on the message, all other considerations forgotten as he recognised the voice of Angron, the World Eaters primarch.
‘The treacherous sons of Corax continue to elude that lumbering engineer, Perturabo. The Warmaster has seen fit to give me free hand at the hunt and I will bring down the scum of Deliverance within days. All ships are to return to orbit to conduct the search. To me, my savage hounds! We shall let loose our fury upon the Raven Guard and wipe them from history. Obey with immediate effect.’
‘Shall we break away?’ asked Kordassis.
‘No,’ replied Delerax. He looked at the strike cruiser limping towards the asteroid field followed by a trail of expanding plasma: a predator seeing its prey wounded and ready for the kill. ‘Let the others chase the Raven Guard back and forth across the mountains. A few more hours will make no difference. I have a Salamander to slay.’
BRANNE FROWNED AND looked at the scanner report again. It did not make any more sense on the second reading. He turned to his companion, the Imperial Army praefector, Marcus Valerius.
‘A large residual trace of plasma and radiation, plus scattered debris clouds,’ said the Raven Guard commander.
‘A space battle?’ asked the praefector.
‘A large one,’ replied Branne. ‘Too large.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Valerius.
Branne handed him the report and walked over to the men working the scanner console, his armour’s heavy boots muffled by the thick carpet laid over the decking. ‘Have these readings been confirmed by the rest of the fleet?’
‘Yes, commander,’ replied the chief officer. ‘Within standard parameters, all sensor returns are showing the same across the fleet.’
‘What do you mean by “too large”?’ said Valerius.
‘Dozens of destroyed ships,’ said Branne. ‘More ships than the entirety of the Luna Wolves fleet.’
‘Imperial Army vessels turned by the Warmaster, perhaps,’ suggested the officer. ‘Oh, and were they not renamed the Sons of Horus?’
The praefector toyed with the red sash across his chest, a symbol of his family’s nobility. It showed signs of wear from Valerius’s constant fidgeting during the long warp jump from Deliverance to Isstvan. The praefector’s nervousness was understandable, though it irritated Branne considerably. Valerius had persuaded the Raven Guard commander to abandon his role as garrison leader of the Ravenspire to come to Isstvan and had vouched for the act with his life. Branne was more than willing to exact the price offered if the trap he suspected proved to be true.
‘Even so, it would indicate almost total destruction of the involved fleet,’ said Branne, ignoring the praefector’s correction. ‘That many destroyed ships indicate a much larger battle.’
‘How do we proceed?’ asked Valerius.
Branne considered his options. His fleet, composed of three Raven Guard vessels including his battle-barge and a handful of Imperial Army transports and frigates, had entered Isstvan perpendicular to the orbital plane. He studied the schematic display of the fleet’s position on a monitor; a projected course drew a dotted line around the Isstvan star towards the planets currently on the other side of the system.
‘Activate sensor dampening protocols,’ said the commander. ‘Rig reflex shields for silent approach. We’ll come in across the star to mask our signature. I don’t want to be seen.’
‘What about my vessels?’ asked Valerius. ‘We don’t have that capability.’
‘Get them to run as quiet as possible,’ said Branne. ‘Until we find out what has happened, I don’t want anyone else to know we are here.’
‘Quiet running will slow us down,’ said Valerius. He blinked rapidly, another nervous tic he had developed. ‘What if we are being too cautious and arrive late?’
‘Late for what?’ rasped Branne, out of patience with the praefactor’s constant hectoring. ‘The battle’s already happened, Marcus. Whatever occurred here is over.’
FIVE DAYS CLOSER to Isstvan V, where the majority of the fighting appeared to have taken place, Branne was in his quarters when he was passed word that the ship was receiving a transmission from Valerius’s flagship.
‘Send it through to my personal comm,’ said Branne, putting aside the data-slate of sensor readings he had been studying. The reports all confirmed the initial survey. A space battle, or rather several battles in a short period of time involving nearly a hundred vessels, had raged around Isstvan V and out-system towards Isstvan VI.
‘Commander Branne, we have picked up a signature code.’ Valerius’s voice sounded reedy and weak over the hissing comm-link. ‘It’s an Iron Hands identification transmission. A ship identifying itself as the Glory of Victory. It’s automated. Trying to track the signal for reply.’
‘Negative,’ snapped Branne. ‘Do not open transmission. Do you want everybody in the Isstvan system to know we are here?’
‘My apologies, commander,’ said Valerius. ‘However, a narrow-beam signal would be very hard to detect. Perhaps those on the Iron Hands ship can tell us what happened here.’
‘Negative,’ Branne said again. ‘Continue to monitor for other transmissions.’
‘But what if they need our help?’ said Valerius.
‘We can’t trust them,’ said Branne.
‘I don’t understand, commander,’ said the praefector. ‘We can’t trust the Iron Hands?’
‘My technicians have been analysing the readings from the battles,’ Branne explained. ‘It’s hard to be certain, but it seems that the fleet sent to deal with Horus split and fighting broke out. I fear it is not just the Luna Wolves that have turned against us. Until we know for sure who is loyal, we have to suspect everybody.’
Static filled the room as Valerius absorbed this revelation. Eventually the officer spoke again, his voice a barely-heard whisper in the hiss.
‘But if that is true, what of the Raven Guard?’ he said.
‘Your dreams may have had something to them after all, Marcus,’ said Branne.
‘So now we set full speed?’
‘No, not yet.’ Branne took a deep breath, only now consciously acknowledging a doubt that had nagged him since he had first begun to suspect the extent of the treachery at Isstvan. ‘We have to be careful. We may be the last survivors of the Raven Guard.’
THREE DAYS OUT from orbit of Isstvan V, Branne’s fleet ghosted in on minimal power, every spare watt of energy from the reactors diverted to the sensor arrays and communications systems, seeking answers to horrifying questions. The evidence was overwhelming: Horus had allies from within the fleet sent to bring him to order.
Branne spent most of his time on the bridge of his battle-barge, the Avenger. For the last two days he had hosted Valerius on board, to ensure that the praefector was within easy reach if things went amiss. The Imperial Army officer sat beside the communications console gnawing at a worn nail, cheeks sunken, his usually smooth skin dark with stubble. He stared at the screens with haunted, bloodshot eyes rimmed with darkness and Branne guessed that the nightmares still plagued the officer, though he had not mentioned them again since they had set out from Deliverance.