Sabbat Worlds

  A WARHAMMER 40,000 ANTHOLOGY

  SABBAT WORLDS

  Featuring Gaunt’s Ghosts

  Edited by Dan Abnett

  (An Undead Scan v1.0)

  It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

  Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants—and worse.

  To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  by Dan Abnett

  Apostle’s Creed

  by Graham McNeill

  The Headstone and the Hammerstone Kings

  by Matthew Farrer

  Regicide

  by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

  The Iron Star

  by Dan Abnett

  Cell

  by Nik Vincent

  Blueblood

  by Nick Kyme

  A Good Man

  by Sandy Mitchell

  Of Their Lives in the Ruins of Their Cities

  by Dan Abnett

  INTRODUCTION

  It seems I can add “world builder” to my CV.

  Actually, that comes as no great revelation to me. Anyone who works in what’s loosely known as “genre fiction” (i.e. SF, fantasy, horror, comics, a great deal of gaming, etc., etc.), is used to the process. What’s basically meant by the phrase is the deliberate and artful construction of a consistent fictional background, setting or milieu for your story or stories to operate in. There are some singularly achieved examples (Middle Earth, Arrakis, Gormenghast) and there are some spectacularly piecemeal yet inclusive examples too (the continuity of Doctor Who, the Marvel Comics Universe). I’ve personally done it many times, often without even consciously realising I’m doing it, as I create the background for a story or series of my own. This happened with the city of Downlode in my 2000AD series Sinister Dexter, and it happened every time I invented a planet setting for a Star Trek or Legion of Super-Heroes story. Sometimes it means literally inventing a world, sometimes it means something more figurative. What you’re basically setting out to do is establish a playing field that is logical and stable and doesn’t start suddenly contradicting itself.

  When I was first asked to write for Warhammer 40,000 (as memory serves, this would have been around about 1996), the basics of the “world” I would be working in were already well built. Like many popular and long-running intellectual properties, 40k is a “shared universe”—lots of individuals work within, and contribute creatively to, the whole. But the universe was truly vast, and there was a great deal of room for “micro-invention” within it.

  I don’t mean this to sound like a criticism of Warhammer 40,000 at all: the inclusion of huge scope for individual development was a deliberately designed aspect of the universe. This was an adventure you were being invited to join in with, and contribute to. As anyone who’s played the game or built his own army (and its mythology) from the ground up will testify, that’s the appeal. There is room for that invention.

  As I’ve written novels for the Black Library, in excess of thirty and counting, I’d like to think I’ve contributed in two particular areas of the world building process (maybe it’s not really my place to review this but, hey, I’ve got the mic right now). The first area is what might be called small-scale texture or domestic detail. With various books, but particularly the Eisenhorn trilogy, I wrote about the 40k universe away from the front line of eternal war. I created a lot of words, phrases and ideas that have been adopted as part of the basic vernacular (vox, anybody? promethium!) and used by other writers, by players, and by game designers alike. That gives me a huge warm feeling inside.

  The other area is an actual area. It’s called the Sabbat Worlds.

  One of the first (not the very first, but one of the first) short stories I wrote for the Black Library’s Inferno! magazine was about a bunch of Imperial Guard called the Tanith First and Only. Along with their commander, Ibram Gaunt, they have gone on to feature in thirteen novels, with a new one coming in 2011. They have a vast, dogged and devoted fanbase, and they represent my most monumental creative achievement (even if you simply measure it in words).

  I had no idea how far the Gaunt’s Ghosts stories would take me when I wrote that first tale (or the handful that followed, or even the first few novels, if I’m honest), but I did know I wanted some kind of backdrop. I wanted Gaunt and his men to be fighting in a particular campaign, and so I created names (in a loose and scattershot way) for the small corner of the vast 40k galaxy that they were fighting in. I called it the Sabbat Worlds. I don’t know where that name came from (I don’t know where any of the names came from, actually, except that I deliberately went for “Celtic” names for the Tanith). “The Sabbat Worlds” sounded exotic and atmospheric. I made reference to events that had happened just prior to the first story, and mentioned other places. It gave the stories a little meat, a little context.

  As the novels took off, the background developed. It grew flesh over its bones. By the fourth book, Honour Guard, we had a real sense of what the Sabbat Worlds were all about and why they were important. These elements have become more and more significant as I’ve progressed. I find it very satisfying that those early, almost throwaway references to places and events are becoming increasingly important. The series as a whole is broken down into discrete story arcs (the first three novels form the first arc, The Founding; the next four form the second arc, The Saint; the next four form the third, The Lost). The latest arc, the fourth, is called The Victory, and only the first of its four novels has been published at the time of writing. Even in this book, Blood Pact, readers will see how the setting is coming to drive the action more and more. Those flyaway bits of colour text I decorated the story with in 1996 are now monolithic parts of the epic.

  So partly through my own deliberate efforts, and partly through a spontaneous creative process, the Sabbat Worlds have evolved. At one point, we produced a wallchart of them, and a campaign overview book that is now rarer than hen’s teeth. I never imagined that this corner of space (called, by the cheeky BL editors, “the Daniverse”) would get so big. But there are, as I said, thirteen Gaunt books, plus the air combat novel Double Eagle and the Titan novel Titanicus, both of which are set in the same crusade. All told, that’s something over a million and a half words worth of Sabbat adventuring.

  I suppose the real test of a piece of world building is how well it stands up to the visits of guest creato
rs. In late 2009, just as I was due to begin work on the sequel to Blood Pact, I was pole-axed by late-onset epilepsy. It was a freaky time, not least because it took a while for the condition to be diagnosed, and there were a good couple of months where the seizures could have been the consequence of something… how can I put it? Final.

  When I discovered at last it was “just epilepsy” (there’s a phrase you don’t imagine yourself saying) I was incredibly relieved. I’ve been picking myself up since, learning what I can do, and what I can’t. There is a period of adjustment while you get your meds balanced, for example. I’m now settling down to a new lease of life that I’m very content about. But while the crisis was happening, boy did some deadlines get screwed.

  The Gaunt novel, Salvation’s Reach, had to slide back and miss its expected autumn slot. There was just no way it was going to happen. But Black Library editor Christian Dunn got chatting to me to see if we could devise a stonking hit of Sabbat Worlds loveliness for the readers to tide them over.

  This book is the result. I’ve invited other Black Library writers whose work I admire to contribute stories set in the Sabbat Worlds, perhaps even touching on strands or characters established in or suggested by the storylines in my books. I’ve also added a brand new Gaunt’s Ghosts novella to round things out.

  I am blown away by the stories various writers have given back to me, by the sheer creative energy they’ve poured into bits of my haphazard world building. It is a great honour and privilege to commend them to you, the reader.

  So, join me for a Sabbat Worlds roadtrip. I call shotgun. Believe me, we’re going to need one.

  Dan Abnett Maidstone, May 2010

  Graham needs little introduction to Black Library readers. The author of the Ultramarines series and of Horus Heresy epics including the New York Times bestseller A Thousand Sons, he is the master of 40k hugeness and fury, and a writer I unfailingly refer to as “mighty” when I talk about him in my blogs. Graham and I have evolved an enjoyably close way of working in tandem for the Horus books, which he described as me “knocking shots into the air for him to smash”. This seemed to pay dividends with Horus Rising and False Gods, and will again with the parasitic twins A Thousand Sons and Prospero Burns.

  Graham has taken as his starting point Double Eagle, the air combat novel I wrote a few years back. I had a splendid time writing it, and it was something I’d wanted to do for a long time. Unashamedly, I set out to do a sort of “Battle of Britain” in 40k terms. It has earned a lot of fans (including, I’m delighted to say, some Luftwaffe crewmen, from whom I have a standing invitation to visit a German airbase—must get around to doing that), to such an extent that I’ve been planning a sequel for a long time. I know what it’s called (Interceptor City, since you asked) and I know what happens, I just haven’t had the time to write it yet. It keeps getting pushed back. When Graham said he wanted to write something involving the characters featured in Double Eagle, I was all for it. I think this story will go some way towards soothing the jonesing of Double Eagle fans.

  Double Eagle principally featured the Phantine XX squadron, flying Thunderbolts in defence of the Sabbat World Enothis, but we also met the elite, privileged squadron of combat aces called the Apostles. Larice Asche, once of the Phantine, managed to win a place in this exclusive club. But exactly how long will she last? And how much glory is there when battle honour and status comes with approximately zero life expectancy?

  Dan Abnett

  APOSTLE’S CREED

  Graham McNeill

  The Thunderbolt cut through the frigid air like an ivory dagger, trailing white contrails from the leading edges of its wings. Following the manoeuvres of Apostle Seven, Larice Asche executed a perfect quarter roll before inverting and pulling into a shallow turn. She took her time, not pushing the aircraft. After three months strapped down in the hold of a Munitorum mass conveyer, it was never a good idea to ask too much of a plane until you’d given it some time to stretch its wings and get used to being in the air again.

  She watched the crisp movements of Apostle Seven through the canopy, a cream-coloured Thunderbolt that hung in the air like an angel basking in the sunlight. Dario Quint was at its controls, his flawless stickwork apparently effortless. Larice knew that wasn’t the case. Quint had logged thousands of hours and flown hundreds of sorties to hone his skill.

  “Level flight, Apostle Five,” said Quint. “There’s murderous shear coming off the Breakers, so use vectors to compensate if you go in close.”

  “Understood, Seven,” responded Larice. It was the longest single sentence Quint had said to her since Seekan had invited her to join the Apostles back on Enothis. She’d tried to engage him in conversation aboard the Rosencranz, en route to Amedeo, but he’d always ignored her. Not in a way she could get mad about, and not with any rudeness. More like he chose not to engage because he didn’t know how to.

  Despite Quint’s warning, the air at nine thousand metres was calm, and it was a simple matter to stay on his wing. Larice scanned the auspex inbetween craning her neck to look around for the telltale glint of sunlight on metal that might indicate a hostile contact.

  Nothing. The skies were clear. She was disappointed.

  They’d already made kills today, an intercept with some Tormentors returning from a bombing raid on Coriana, foremost city of the Ice, but that tussle had been too easy to be properly interesting. The bombers had already shed their payloads, but that didn’t matter. Bombers that didn’t make it back to their base wouldn’t return with fresh ordnance to crack the Ice.

  Cordiale had always said it was bad luck to tangle with the enemy on a shakeout flight, but his luck had run out over the Zophonian Sea, so what did he know? In any case, a Thunderbolt was a weapon of war, a lethal sabre that, once drawn, needed to taste blood before being sheathed.

  The Tormentors had been rushing through the valleys of the Breakers, hoping their speed, low flight and the lousy auspex bounces from the peaks would hide them from Imperial retribution.

  No such luck.

  Apostle Seven had found them, though she had no idea how, since they were running with their auspex silent, and had to rely on Operations to guide them to intercepts. Seekan once told her that Quint, the ace of aces, had an innate sense for where bats were hiding, and she hadn’t questioned it.

  The bombers had top cover, a trio of Hell Talons, enough to give most pilots pause, but they were the Apostles. Quint took a line on them before firing up his auspex.

  “Turn and burn,” he said, his clipped, economical tones muffled by his mask.

  His Thunderbolt stood on its wing and dived for the deck.

  Coming in high from the east, she and Quint pounced on the Hell Talons, and Larice had relished the panic she’d seen in their desperate scatter. Quint had splashed two bats before they even realised the direction of the attack. He raked the Talons with las before punching through their formation and leaving the last for Larice.

  The bat broke high and she turned into it, anticipating its next move and mashing the firing stud on her stick. She had a good angle of deflection, and her bolts tore the bat to burning wreckage. Hauling on the stick, she pulled into a shallow dive to engage the Tormenters themselves.

  Quint had already gutted the first bomber and was lining up on his second, viffing and jinking to avoid the turret fire that seemed unable to pin him in place. Larice turned into the third bomber and raked it end to end with her quads. It dropped from the sky, almost cut in two. Pulling a high-g turn, she closed on the last bomber. The pilot was heading for the deck, trying to gain speed, but that was just stupid. There was no way he could outrun her.

  It drifted into her firing reticule, and Larice gently lifted the nose of her plane. Quad fire hammered from her guns and the Tormentor obligingly flew into the lashing bolts. The pilot’s canopy bloomed glass and fire, and the ponderous bird described a lazy arc towards the ground.

  It slammed into the mountainside, leaving a blackened teardrop of fi
re on the snow.

  She’d pulled up and they resumed their patrol circuit as though nothing had happened. Seven kills between them, not a bad outing for one day. It had been an easy intercept. The bats hadn’t seen them until it was too late. The glaring white of the ever-present ice and snow made it hellishly difficult to spot incoming craft until they were right on top of you, a situation that had served them well here, but cut both ways.

  Looking down past her port wing, Larice saw a dappled black line of giant ice floes detaching from the coastline where the frozen sea had loosened its grip on the land. To her right, the Breakers reared like gleaming white fangs, a jagged rampart of mountains keeping the worst of the razor-ice storms that swept down from the northern polar wastes from ravaging the southern cites.

  Archenemy land forces were moving in on those cities from the west, but lately waves of bombers and ground attack fighters had opened up a new flank, striking from the heart of the northern ice wastes. Though it had been declared impossible, it seemed the enemy had managed to establish a base somewhere on the frozen surface of the ocean. Orbital auspex had been unable to locate this base, and the existence of a mass carrier on the ice had been ruled out as impossible.

  After the war on Enothis, Larice knew that anything high command decided was impossible had an inversely proportional chance of being true.

  “Apostle Five, hold my wing,” said Quint. “You’re drifting.” Larice returned her focus to her instruments, making a visual check on her positioning. Quint was right, she had drifted. By a metre.

  At first she was irritated—a metre was nothing when you were flying in such an easy pattern—but she cut herself off. She was an Apostle now, and a metre was a big deal. Leave lazy flying to other pilots. The 101st Apostles were the elite flyers of the Navy, and she was better than that. “Sorry, Apostle Five,” she said.