Raven of Prince

      The toe of ceramite boot touches the body clad in grey armour with disgust. Captain Alastor Rushal orders:       “Shake this waste out of armour”.       The waste clearly objects and croaks slightly. Rushal does not care, but Brother-Sergeant Lajos evidently cares.       “Captain, what are you going to do with him?”       Rushal grins wryly and unkindly.       “Our Eight Legion cousins have some traditions that are worth borrowing. I’m going to disembowel this esteemed Perturabo descendant and hang him out on the nearest rocks. We can strike only from ambush – so let them at least fear us. Let them shoot at every shadow and let every rustle startle them. And… let them look at dear allies with suspicion too. Any quarrel in their ranks is our benefit”.       Lajos makes several steps back.       “I shall not do this. And I do not recommend you doing that, Captain”.       “I don’t give a damn about your recommendations, Sergeant. We’re at war, not in the novel for sensitive ladies”.       “We do not have the moral right to become like traitors. The Primarch…” That is the last drop, and Rushal explodes with motion. The resentment has been seething for long, and Lajos’s didactic voice just pushed the trigger.       Growling, Alastor pounces upon the Sergeant, knocking him down with one hit. Then lowers himself, pressing Lajos with his knee, and speaks through set teeth, looking directly into black eyes through helmet visor.       “Your moral, your Kiavar brotherhood and your Primarch had stuck in my throat for too long! Your marvelous Raven Guard moral lies just there, mixed with Salamanders and Iron Hands, and the Primarch runs to cry for them just in lingerie! The traitors have almost slaughtered three Legions and press the survivors harder and harder. What’s your mind, who should we imitate? Or should I follow you and come clean out of all this shit? Damn it, Lajos. Either we fight effectively – with any means necessary. Or it’s easier to crack your skull with a bolt and care for nothing!”       Sergeant’s hands are free, and he hits the Captain’s temple, fast and hard. Rushal rolls aside, and both of them jump up. The squad forms an uneven semi-circle behind the Sergeant, clutching their weapons.       “That is how you talk now, Terran filth?” the Raven grins. “The Primarch was right when he wanted to get rid of you”.       “He was”, Alastor agrees. “If he were the same Terran filth – he wouldn’t hesitate to finish off Lorgar, and wouldn’t run away from Kurze as some frightened rabbit!”       The Sergeant pulls his boltgun out of magna-grapple on his thigh and aims at Rushal’s head.       “Enough your words, traitor. I shall not listen to your filthy slander further!”       “Slander, really?”       There appears another figure on the hill behind Rushal. Clad in midnight-blue armour, helmet crested with the bat wings; he leans on a chain halberd casually. And there is no doubt about his identity.       “It seems that he is totally right”.       The Ravens pause for just a couple of seconds, and this pauses seals their fate.       The Atramentars appear just among enemies in the flashes of teleport. They are silent, calm and serious, they don’t throw threats – they fire immediately.       “Scatter!” Lajos commands. It’s purely suicidal to fight once more. Saving the squad is more important than punishing Rushal the apostate. Breaking distance, going stealth, be where nobody awaits – that is the XIX Legion salvation.       The loyalists lack just a couple of seconds.       Sevatar aims at Lajos’s back, but another shot comes earlier. The Raven Guard Captain lowers his boltgun and turns to the Night Lord.       “My name is Alastor Rushal. And I am coming with you”.

***

      “So, you’ve just wanted to save your skin?” Malek asks.       “No”, Rushal shakes his head. “Damn… how should I explain this…”       “You don’t need explaining”, the Atramentar waves his hand dismissively. “I’m Terran too, and I remember the Dust Clad story. I know that no other Legion had such contempt to the Terrans and nowhere the purge was so blunt. I think, you’ve held your rank only because there was no Kiavar man for the good Captain place, right?”       “Perhaps”, Alastor shrugs. “The Primarch began getting rid of us immediately after taking the Legion under his wing. Do you know how this feels? To understand, to feel every day that you’re filth and scrap, that you’ll be thrown into the worst bloodbaths, shut down through all the holes, expended as some small coin?”       The Raven stands up abruptly and bends over the table between Malek and himself, planting his palms on the smooth surface.       “We were the Legion’s shield, my brother and I paid for the precious lives of Corax’s favourites… and we’d got only barely concealed “Alive? Bad” as a gratitude! No one cared about your past and your deeds for the Legion – because you’re a damned Terran. Of course, Astartes are bred for battle,” Rushal sits in the armchair again, “so don’t think that I’m complaining… Well, no, I am. Not about hard life – about injustice. Perhaps it will sound too lofty, but I can’t leave out the thought that I’m the last Terran in the XIX. Was the last one”. “And you’ve endured this for a hundred of years?” the Night Lord looks astonished. “You’re not a Raven, you’re some patient reptile”.       “What could I do, charge at the Primarch and his close circle? No sense. We could only hold, care of each other and not to die as long as we could. If only because of spite”.       “And betray at the first opportunity?”       “‘First opportunity’ would be to run away towards the Sons of Horus with all the company, just after the landing. But yes, if not to pity myself, not to make excuses and speak truth about everything – I’ve betrayed the XIX Legion. After my Raven brethren have killed me”.       “Have they?”       “In their mind they had. If not for Sevatar…”       “Did you follow him because of gratitude? Or you’ve just had nowhere to go?”       “Not so simple a thing”, Alastor winces with annoyance. “You see, all the world turned upside down for me at this moment. One deal is to hit Lajos in his teeth for not following order – combat, all the war deal, no time for softness. If he’s stepped back, I don’t know what would’ve happened. But when one aims at you with boltgun, and the other supports with the word and weapon… Somehow you wonder, who is the brother, who is the enemy here”.       And then Sevatar just picked you up with ease, Malek grins with understanding. And asks:       “Do you know, why the Atramentars follow him with no questions?”       “Why?” echoes Rushal.       “He gives us the truth”.

***

      The traditions of bandit clans on Nostramo and Terra are somewhat similar. It is really acceptable to swear loyalty by cutting out your own tongue. But it is not enough for the Astartes.       The former Captain of the Raven Guard Eighty-Ninth Company stands before the First Captain of the Night Lords. The black armour is laid at the floor, and Rushal holds his warhammer in his hands. Alastor is silent – forever. From now Sevatar will speak for him.       “You leave the Raven Guard and embrace the Dark Path”.       The hammer strikes, breaking the Aquila on the breast plate. One more strikes leaves an ugly dent on the shoulder pad: white raven has been engraved there, watching the world.       “You pledge your loyalty to me and do this by your own will”.       The hammer lies at the feet of Sevatar. Raven, who is Raven no more, kneels.       “You give yourself to my hands, and I accept your loyalty”.       Alastor Rushal throws his head back, baring the throat. Sevatar smiles and takes out the knife.       “You’re silent now, and I need somehow mark you. For the others to know that you’re our now. That you’re mine, exactly”.       The knife crosses Alastor’s face twice – from the forehead, across the temple, to the middle of the left cheek. Then from the edge of left eye to the chin, cutting the lips. Blood flows over the face and clothes instantly, but the Raven does not move without permission. Impossible to do this now.       Sevatar gives the knife to Rushal, holding the blade firmly.       The Raven takes the weapon, also clutching the blade. The blood of two Astartes mixes on the cold metal.       “I take your blood and give you mine… brother”.

***

      Conrad Kurze is pleased. Quite pleased. The container with stasis-held Vulkan is being loaded at the ship, Perturabo agreed to help with one interesting project, and the head does not ache too much. Actually, the only thing that separates him from real joy is the lack of one Raven… but let him fly. His time is yet to come.       The Primarch looks around idly and notices the black armour. And the crippled white bird on the shoulder-pad. The Primarch arches his brow.       Sevatar, who has been waiting for a good moment, steps forward.       “He is Alastor Rushal. He wants to walk our path. And he can”.       Conrad Kurze stays silent. He just looks closely at something – through the Raven.       Rushal stays silent too, and just looks at the Primarch’s faces. With respect, without fear.       Half a minute later Night Haunter turns back and waves his hand.       “Sevatar, we are going to join the Iron Warriors. Then we’ll relocate…”       The commands fall as there is no Alastor nearby. Actually, for Conrad he doesn’t meaningfully exist. The Prince of Crows has the right of choosing his own retinue.       Rushal makes a half-step back. His place is behind the Night Lords First Captain’s right shoulder.       No one will ever dare argue with that.       Because we are brothers.