The Grey Raven - Gav Thorpe Read online

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  The Grey Raven – Gav Thorpe

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  The Grey Raven

  Gav Thorpe

  There was a moment during translation when everything hung between the realms of the material and the immaterial, when Balsar Kurthuri knew silence. At the threshold of existence, for an infinitesimally short instant, he was neither real nor imagined, alive nor dead, legionary nor psyker. The mesmerising, taunting, crashing background noise of the warp did not intrude upon his mind; the constant nagging whisper of his companions’ thoughts and the ever-present hiss of humanity’s psychic static was gone.

  He remembered the first time he had left with the Raven Guard, the first time he had been upon a ship as it delved into the gap between realities. Every occasion since, on each of the countless jumps from star system to star system, he looked forward to that singular experience, hoping that perhaps this time the silence would remain.

  It was not to be.

  The cold clamour of his fellow Space Marines welled up around him, no matter how much he suppressed his potential, how high and thick he built his mental barriers. Even the servitors at the consoles, more machines than men, gave off a dim glimmer of life like slowly leaking reactors tripping a rad-counter over and over – the very reason for their existence being that they had souls, which true machines did not, such were the strange ways of the Mechanicum.

  The Geller field dropped as the warp breach closed behind them, taking with it the nerve-tingling sensation of psychic suppression. Like a fog lifting outside a sealed door, Balsar was aware of its dissipation even though his thoughts extended no further than the limits of his own skull.

  He had always been more of receiver than a broadcaster. It was that ability that had seen him inducted into the XIX Legion and sent out with the fleet.

  Layer by layer he shut away the impeding inputs, like narrowing the frequency band on a vox-caster until he had only a single channel.

  Last to go were the bleeding thoughts of his companions on the bridge of the Wrathful Vanguard, and strongest were the mixed emotions of its commander, Captain Noriz. His emanating thoughts at returning to the Throneworld fluctuated between relief, trepidation and anticipation. Not that one needed psychic powers to discern such truth – it was obvious from the Imperial Fist’s pensive expression and relentless pacing – and the bright polish and full regalia of his war-plate – that the occasion of his return to his Legion was at the fore of his mind.

  More closed but still discernible were the thought patterns of Arcatus Vindix Centurio, warrior of the Legio Custodes, who had left with the Raven Guard after their fateful acquisition of the primarch gene-code during their last journey to Terra. His face was passive, his stance relaxed, but seeping through the iron gates of his mind came pulses of something like happiness at his homecoming. Not relief, but pleasure at being returned to the place of his birth and his duty.

  Even as a semblance of quiet fell upon Balsar, the placid deepness of a pool from which one hears and sees only the faintest glimmers from the surface, a physical clamour rose to fill his senses.

  Sensor-servitors jabbered warnings and klaxons wailed as the augur banks came online after their deactivation for warp transit. Multiple targeting beams and intrusive hails assaulted the Wrathful Vanguard, threatening all kinds of trauma before even a word was uttered.

  ‘Warning signals off,’ snapped Noriz, his golden yellow livery dappled by the glow from a dozen red and amber lamps. The clamour seemed to settle more than agitate him, and he spoke calmly to his officers. ‘Gun crews remain on standby, targeting systems on passive.’

  A chorus of affirmatives replied.

  ‘Vox-channels open for contact,’ reported the legionary sergeant at the communications console. ‘Which hail do you wish to receive?’

  ‘How many are there?’ asked Balsar.

  The sergeant checked his display.

  ‘Eighteen.’ He read a little more. ‘Two outer defence stations, three full line warships and the rest are escort-class monitors and patrol boats.’

  ‘Give me whichever has highest rank priority,’ Noriz told his deck officer. ‘Return the others with our standard identifiers.’

  Balsar realised that Noriz was in his element. This was his whole world. After years fighting the war alongside the Raven Guard he was now returning to the Imperial Fists, on far more familiar ground.

  The former Librarian had another revelation. ‘You were hoping for this, weren’t you?’

  Noriz glanced at him with a guilty smile.

  ‘I’ll admit, I was far more worried about arriving and not being challenged.’ He nodded to the waiting sergeant. ‘Full contact, prepare for visual feed.’

  The connection crackled into life with one of the defence stations. On a sub-screen, wavering lines illustrated the several banks of weapons batteries currently locked on to their position from the fortress. Armoured figures moved in the background, mostly legionaries and several gold-armoured Custodians – to Balsar’s surprise, the figure that appeared on the main display was not dressed in the war-plate of the VII Legion, but the starched uniform of an Imperial Army officer. By the frogging and epaulets he was of some senior rank, not entirely the sort expected to find manning a comm-station. Such a secondment spoke of recent upheaval. His broad face was scarred down one side – a las-burn fresh enough that healing unguent still gave it a glossy sheen and stained the stiff collar of his dress jacket. He spoke through one side of his mouth, the other paralysed by the wound.

  ‘The Wrathful Vanguard? Your identifier is years out of date,’ said the officer. He turned his head to someone that could not be seen, nodded and looked back at the lens. ‘Is Captain Noriz still in command?’

  ‘I am Captain Noriz of the Imperial Fists. Please provide your rank and name.’

  ‘Commandant-colonel Flecht, of the Jovian Corpus.’ Flecht looked tired, heavy bags under his eyes, his speech slurred even when accounting for the injury. ‘Hold station and await further instruction.’

  ‘I must rejoin the Seventh Legion as soon as possible, commandant-colonel. I have with me Arcatus of the Custodian Guard. He will vouch for all aboard this vessel.’

  ‘The Legio Custodes?’ Flecht roused a little more interest. ‘I’ll note that on the application. Stand-to and await escort. If you attempt to power up your weapons you will be destroyed. If you raise your void shields you will be destroyed. If you attempt to establish communication other than through...’

  His voice tailed off as he turned again, this time to face the figures across the communications hall. A gold-plated warrior approached, their exchange too quiet for the feed pick-ups to detect. Flecht moved aside and was replaced by the blank-masked figure of a Custodian.

  ‘Arcatus, make yourself known,’ he barked.

  ‘I am Arcatus,’ said the warrior, moving to stand beside Noriz. ‘The entire ship’s company has been assessed for loyalty. Few have fought harder in the Emperor’s name than those aboard this ship.’

  ‘You will understand, honoured companion, that verbal assurance is no assurance at all. There have been significant developments since your departure. No ship is permitted into the inner system without authentication and verification in person. A boarding party is being assembled to conduct the search.’

  Noriz glanced at Balsar, sharing the moment of irony. Several years earlier it had been the Imperial Fist enforcing the security of the Solar System and the Raven Guard under suspicion. To his credit, Noriz suffere
d the indignity of doubt without question.

  Arcatus’ mood was not so easily tempered. ‘You would delay my return to the Emperor’s side? This is no Blood Game.’

  ‘I am Ludivicus, personally appointed to this role by the First Lord of Terra. You will defer to the judgement of this station as if it were the judgement of Malcador himself.’

  ‘Does the Sigillite now sit upon the Throne?’ Arcatus demanded. ‘We answer only to the Emperor.’

  ‘And the Emperor has named Malcador his regent in all things. The Sigillite’s word is the Emperor’s will, Arcatus. You know this.’

  ‘What of my Lord Dorn?’ Noriz asked, his haste betraying a sudden anxiety. ‘Our scanners detect the debris of much fighting in the system. How fares the Praetorian of Terra?’

  ‘He lives,’ was the only reply that Ludivicus would give.

  Balsar made his presence known. ‘You speak of judgement, and claim to speak in the name of Malcador, but I am afraid I must set my case before the Sigillite in person. Corvus Corax of the Nineteenth Legion dispatched me to the Throneworld to stand before the Sigillite and seek his adjudication on matters pertaining to the Edict of Nikaea, and the Librarius.’

  ‘And who are you to demand the personal attention of the Sigillite in these critical times?’

  ‘Balsar Kurthuri of the Raven Guard. Formerly of the Librarius, under personal oath to Lord Corax.’

  The Custodian’s mask made it impossible to detect any change in his expression but his demeanour shifted. He stood a little straighter, his shoulders tensing. Even if Balsar allowed his other-sense free flow, the distance to the defence station was too great for a scan, but Ludivicus’ curt manner confirmed his sudden antipathy.

  ‘Arcatus, threat protocols are in full effect. I expect you and your followers to do your duty immediately.’

  Balsar looked to the Imperial Fists captain for any explanation, but Noriz’s confused look spoke volumes.

  ‘Is this a test of my loyalty?’ Arcatus replied. ‘You expect a Custodian to accept the issue of such a command from another of the lowest rank, is that it? Confirm your authorisation, Ludivicus.’

  ‘It is not test, Arcatus. Do your duty. The authorisation is “Othrys”.’

  A subconscious swell of intent from the Custodian warned Balsar a second before Arcatus swung his guardian spear. It was just enough for him to duck beneath the crackling blade. He leapt back as Arcatus swung again, his thoughts flooded with single-minded determination.

  Noriz threw himself at the Custodian, wrapping his arm around Arcatus’ neck. ‘Hold! What madness is this?’

  Receiving nothing more than a backhanded blow in response, he bellowed to his crew for assistance.

  ‘And you, get out of here!’ the Imperial Fist yelled at Balsar. ‘Go!’

  Not understanding what had happened but certain that his continued survival depended upon his immediate absence, Balsar turned and ran. He heard the curses of Arcatus and the crash of ceramite colliding while the bridge doors growled open before him, and a flurry of bolters being cocked as he pounded out into the corridor.

  Balsar felt the closest sensation to panic that it was possible for a Space Marine to experience – a mystifying blend of confusion and urgency that propelled him without thought along the corridors of the Wrathful Vanguard. His instinct took him aft and down, toward the area of the ship that had been set aside as a temporary sanctum for him. If he could reach the safety of that hall, with the ward-sigils and psychic locks that he had created himself, he could at least take a moment to assess the situation.

  Thus went his reasoned justification, but he also knew that he was simply allowing instinct to drive his decision making. His conditioning, training and experience had prepared him for nearly any eventuality on the battlefield. The only time he had felt like this before had been on Isstvan, at the dropsite, the moment that the Iron Warriors’ cannons had opened fire.

  Helpless. Bemused. Almost infantile in his inability to comprehend the magnitude of what was happening.

  Balsar had not the slightest clue what new threat protocols had been activated, nor why Arcatus had attacked him. What was special about ‘Othrys’? He tried to tell himself that it was a misunderstanding, but the singular, instantaneous purpose with which the Custodian had turned against him proved otherwise.

  The boarding alarm sounded across the ship, three short groans of the klaxon followed by three longer tones, repeating endlessly. Serf crew and legionaries would be roused from their stations – they had already been at alert, as was right for any ship dropping in-system. Yellow-armoured warriors pounded down the corridors to their squad muster points, almost oblivious to the sable-plated Raven Guard in their midst.

  A flash of gold warned him of the arrival of a Custodian at a junction ahead. Not Arcatus, but one of his subordinates. The guardian paused and, fortunately for Balsar, looked down the corridor the other way first, giving him a split-second to throw himself out of sight down a side passage.

  He longed to break open the barriers holding his powers in check. If he could scour the passageways and corridors for the minds of his hunters, he could plot a course to his sanctum. The temptation was great, but he held back, mindful of the promise he had made to Lord Corax. With his gene-sire’s permission, he had used his talents in spite of the edict laid down by the Emperor at Nikaea – a simple trick to trigger the psychic lock of the labyrinth that had held the primarch gene-codes on Earth. They had shared a wry understanding at the time, denying his part in the act by attributing it to the will of the Emperor.

  But had the subterfuge sat poorly with Corax since then? Had that act fed into some inherent distrust of psykers and the warp, leading to his later change of heart?

  These thoughts were out of place, unneeded at this desperate time, but Balsar couldn’t entirely banish them as he spied another Custodian ahead. This warrior saw him and opened fire with the bolter of his guardian spear, shells snapping down the corridor.

  The Space Marine replied in kind, lifting his pistol – when had he drawn it? – to fire off a burst without conscious thought. Dodging the Custodian’s return fire, he careened off a bulkhead and pushed on down another corridor, heading toward the starboard gun batteries.

  Twice now, the Custodians had been ahead of him. Clearly Arcatus was guiding them, guessing at his destination.

  He needed a better plan.

  Checking that he was unobserved, Balsar pulled open the hatch to the empty magazine and stepped inside. A few empty shell crates and feed belts littered the floor – Noriz would be disappointed that they had not been tidied away properly when the stores had run out and the chamber fell into disuse.

  Given a moment to think, the Raven Guard considered his situation. Along with Arcatus there were six more Custodians on board. Seven warriors could not possibly scour the entire ship.

  But that was not the problem.

  Even if the Custodians could not track him down, there would be others on their way. The boarding party that Ludivicus had mentioned could number in the dozens, even the hundreds. What chance did he have then of hiding?

  And to what purpose? They would not give up the search if Balsar were such an important target. The unease at his mention of Nikaea meant that it had to be connected to his psychic powers, though whether the threat protocols were to apprehend or execute he was not sure. Balsar figured that it seemed likely the latter, and in any case was not prepared to risk the consequences of finding out.

  If he could not stay here, there had to be some other solution?

  He had to leave. He had to get off the Wrathful Vanguard. Perhaps even make his own way to Terra somehow, to plead his case to Malcador himself. Surely the assertion of his primarch had to count for something?

  The one boon in his favour was that the Imperial Fists had not tried to hinder or apprehend him. It seemed purely a protocol of th
e Legio Custodes for the time being. That could change, of course, if a higher authority was brought to bear. What if Noriz received orders from his Legion command? From Rogal Dorn himself?

  Balsar shook his head, dismissing these thoughts. The primarch of the VII had no knowledge of these events. The fate of a single Librarian was of no concern to him. Nor to Malcador, he suspected. This had to be a blanket authority, a stand-by invoked in extremis.

  If Noriz wasn’t against Balsar, then the Raven Guard needed him firmly on his side. If he was going to get off the ship then he would need help. Having secured Balsar’s quarters it would occur to Arcatus to lock down all of the ship’s flight assets – with only seven pairs of hands, that would be difficult but not impossible. There were four launch bays, and two banks of saviour pods. That would give Arcatus one warrior for the sanctum and one for each route off the ship.

  When the Raven Guard survivors of Isstvan had come to Terra in the wake of the Dropsite Massacre, they had been interred pending the primarch’s audience with the Emperor. During their incarceration at the hands of the Legio Custodes it had been a matter of some debate and contention whether an individual Space Marine was a match for a Custodian. The consensus arrived at by the legionaries of the XIX was that it would be a close-run fight, but ultimately they had to concede, reluctantly, that a Custodian was superior in personal combat.

  Again, Balsar’s thoughts returned to the next step. He needed assistance and only Noriz could provide the sort that he required. What he would do once he was free of the Wrathful Guardian was another matter.

  There was a communications panel in the wall of the magazine. Balsar keyed it to the command channel of the bridge.

  ‘I need to speak to Captain Noriz immediately.’

  ‘Kurthuri? This channel is not secure! I have your position, await contact.’

  The connection was cut and Balsar took his thumb from the activation stud, at a loss. Had he just given himself away? He moved to the back of the chamber, pistol aimed at the hatchway, and waited.