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Contents
Cover
Backlist
Title Page
Warhammer 40,000
Dramatis Personae
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Supplemental One
Supplemental Two
About the Author
An Extract from ‘Imperator: Wrath of the Omnissiah’
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
Warhammer 40,000
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 Astra Militarum 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.
Dramatis Personae
LORDS OF THE IRON HANDS
Kristos, Clan Raukaan Iron Father
Verrox, Clan Vurgaan Iron Father
Antal Haraar, Lord Librarian
Jorgirr Shidd, Father of Iron
CLAN RAUKAAN
Telarrch, First sergeant
Niholos, Apothecary
Shulgaar, Iron Chaplain
CLAN GARRSAK
Draevark, Iron captain
Braavos, Iron Chaplain
Artex, Second sergeant
Jalenghaal, Tenth sergeant
Borrg, Battle-brother of Clave Jalenghaal
Burr, Battle-brother of Clave Jalenghaal
Deimion, Battle-brother of Clave Jalenghaal
Hugon, Battle-brother of Clave Jalenghaal
Karrth, Battle-brother of Clave Jalenghaal
Lurrgol, Battle-brother of Clave Jalenghaal
Strontius, Battle-brother of Clave Jalenghaal
Thorrn, Battle-brother of Clave Jalenghaal
CLAN BORRGOS
Dumaar, Apothecary
Lydriik, Chief Librarian, formerly under the command of Deathwatch Captain Harsid
Tartrak, Sixth sergeant
HOSPITALLERS
Mirkal Alfaran, Chapter Master
Galvarro, Venerable, Seneschal
ADEPTUS MECHANICUS
Nicco Palpus, Logi Legatus, Fabricator General of Thennos, Paramount Voice of Mars
Talos Epsili, Metachirurgeon, Secondary Voice of Mars
Chiralias Tarl, Tertiary Voice of Mars
Exar Sevastian, Fabricator-locum, Fabris Callivant
Louard Oelur, Exogenitor, NL-Primus Zero Tier
Qarismi, Magos calculi, Clan Raukaan
Yuriel Phi, Magos instructor
Melitan Yolanis, Enginseer
Baraquiel, Aspiring Techmarine, Angels Porphyr
Barras, Aspiring Techmarine, Knights of Dorn
Thecian, Aspiring Techmarine, Exsanguinators
Sigart, Aspiring Techmarine, Black Templars
Kardan Stronos, Aspiring Techmarine, Iron Hands, Clan Garrsak
ORDO XENOS
Talala Yazir, Inquisitor
Harsid, Deathwatch Captain, originally of the Dea
th Spectres
Ymir, Deathwatch, originally of the Space Wolves
Cullas Mohr, Deathwatch Apothecary, originally of the Brazen Claws
Arven Rauth, Iron Hands Scout
Khrysaar, Iron Hands Scout
Laana Valorrn, Medusan Death Cult Assassin
HOUSE CALLIVANT
Fabris, Princeps, House Callivant
ALAITOC CRAFTWORLD
Yeldrian, Autarch
Elrusiad, Navarch
EMPEROR’S CHILDREN
Ayoashar’Azyr, The daemon known as ‘The Sapphire King’
>>> EXLOAD COMMENCING >>>
>>> INFORMATIONAL >> THE KRISTOS HETERODOXY
Even before the first rogue traders started chasing the ‘Legend of Sthenelus’, before the apostles of Mars launched their first missions to that lauded, benighted world, belief in a universal organiser pervaded its mechnomadic culture.
The similarities with the doctrines of Mars, the Omnissiah as architect and caretaker, must have been striking.
Many on the Martian Synod saw this convergent cultural evolution as evidence that the quasi divinities known by the Medusans as the Clan Patriarchs [SEE INFORMATIONAL SUB-PACKET >> MYTHS AND LEGENDS] had been pioneers of Martian, as opposed to Terran, extraction. Against the backdrop of cultural and territorial struggles that shaped the allegiances of Old Sol, even through the height of the Great Crusade, it was a convenient claim. It justified the efforts to draw this new world from Terra’s embrace and into the orbit of the Red Planet. Magos anthropologicae studying the Medusan cultures have posited that the universal organiser, the Omnissiah as the phenomenon is now recognised, arose simply out of a gradual mythologisation of the Clan Patriarchs and the precursor myths associated with them.
This theorem has been discredited numerous times over the millennia [INDEX >> CANTICLE OF TRAVELS].
The great schema, built into the galactic order by the Omnissiah from its outset, manifests in all things. To say that all proceeds in accordance to His will would be inaccurate.
It proceeds in accordance to His design…
Prologue
The command nexus of the Ryen Ishanshar – or Red Moon over Isha’s Spear in baser tongues – was restraint under the guise of opulence. Every curtain-draped gallery and arcing staircase was integral to the form, every piece of entablature, wainscoting and golden-leafed frieze a statement of a subtle puritanism. Statuary depicting fallen gods and the heroes of the Eldanar emerged from the walls in the most lifelike of ways, as if the divinities themselves had been coaxed from the wraithbone under the urging of the artisan. Living eldar stood or sat within jewelled banks of psychoplastic displays, guiding their mother ship by thought, by song and, where necessary, with the dextrous play of their hands. Precious stones embedded in seemingly uncrewed stations pulsed and throbbed, the jewel displays around them strobing under the deft commands of the dead.
Banners portraying the Doom of Eldanesh fluttered as a moaning whale song reverberated through the nexus. The Ryen Ishanshar was a mind formed from its crew’s minds. Coupled to both in identity and spirit, Navarch Elrusiad felt their distress as his own.
He stood in the nexus’ centre, gloved hands wrapped around a pair of half-circular rails that hardened or softened depending on the tension of his grip. He wore a full suit of sleek blue body plastek ribbed with yellow struts. A brace of shuriken pistols and a curved powerblade were belted at his narrow waist. A cloak of prismatic crystal scales hung over one shoulder, mirroring the nexus’ coloured lights. Over his face was a mask.
The expression it wore was the blankness of deep space, the psychoplastic marked only by a single bright star etched upon the cheek. The Star of Hoec. The Mariner’s Star. It concealed his thoughts as it concealed his face and, through him, guarded the Ryen Ishanshar and her crew from each other.
He felt them respond to his calm.
‘The human vessel is coming about,’ announced Laurelei, circling the Navarch’s dais with one hand upon the jewelled hilt of her sword, one foot forever on the Path of the Warrior. ‘They are preparing to fire.’
Brace for impact,+ he thought.
The ship shuddered. Harmonies rang through the nexus as its kinetic supports sang off the impact energy, massed firepower from a behemoth eight times the Ishanshar’s displacement making a mockery of her holofields. Blows landed purely by chance. The ship cried out. At the wayfinder array, Marendriel shivered in transferred pain.
Elrusiad held his thoughts in equilibrium. He knew what his ship could shoulder.
Show them our tail, Marendriel. Full sail for the webway. Let the great bull pursue nimble Kurnous. Let it destroy its own forest in its rampage. They will not forget the fate of the one they call Khan. They will not dare pursue us there.+
Laurelei turned towards him. Her high-boned features and reputation for quick anger made her appear ever haughty. ‘And what of Autarch Yeldrian? If he should return to find us not here?’
We cannot fight this leviathan, beloved.+
Laurelei snorted and turned her back.
Equanimous, Elrusiad looked past her to the wayfinder. +Let us see if the mon-keigh can run.+
Marendriel was already fulfilling the task, and Elrusiad sensed the subtle shift in balance as the Ryen Ishanshar’s fully extended sails caught the solar winds. His grip on the rails tightened, the viscoelastic metal hardening to welcome it, as acceleration pushed him onto his heels.
With a billion subtly coupled senses, he watched the Imperial beast fall off the chase, seeing the great horns of the raging god-bull in its indiscriminate raking of the void.
Tack an iota to port. Adjust holofields to convergence.+
He almost pitied humanity.
Their spell amongst the stars would be brief.
It was no longer fear or anxiety that coursed through the Ryen Ishanshar’s infinity circuit, but rage. Her ancient bones trembled. Her psychoactive skin bristled with graviton pulsars and fusion beamers, the lingering hatreds of the ancestral dead putting fire to the hearts of the living. He could sense her fury that ones such as her could be ambushed by ones such as…
These.
Peace, Ishanshar,+ Elrusiad sent, struggling to contain her. +Only… Asuryan’s eye… sees all.+
Marendriel had her hands splayed a breath above the wayfinder console. Her face was turned side-down as though listening to the instrument’s reports with more than just her mind. ‘Two strike cruisers, seven escorts, in addition to the behemoth.’ The spirit stone embedded in the console beside her pulsed brightly, emitting a vibrato squeal of song. ‘My apologies. Eight escorts.’
Through the Ryen Ishanshar’s eyes Elrusiad saw the enemy’s disposition.
They mean to seize us. They knew we were coming.+
‘You speak of mon-keigh,’ said Laurelei. ‘Not the crones of Morai-Heg.’
Elrusiad shut his eyes. The shudders running through the deck eased, the ship calming as it sensed his intent. He felt its urging spirit. +Yes+. Common will filled him, and his arms lifted of twinned accord.
The crew averted their eyes, touched their waystones and whispered songs to dead gods, even warlike Laurelei, as the Ryen Ishanshar groaned under the ranging shots of the coming wave of human warships.
Without a word, he took the sides of his mask. It came away with ease, released from his face the moment he had decided to remove it.
He turned it over in his hands.
For a moment, an implacable rendering of his own face stared back at him, but the weak psychoplastic was already beginning to lose its connection to his psyche, turning soft and losing the mould of his face with it. He sighed, fiercely sorrowful. His heart pounded like a leaden drum.
And he lifted the mask back to his face.
Liquid plastek crawled over his flesh as the mask’s opposite face reshaped to his features.
The mouth curled into a sneer and the eyes narrowed. Its expression hardened. The Star of Hoec faded, and in its place a shallow groove extended from the corner of the eye and cut down into the plastek. A solitary tear, shed in recompense for the taking of a life.
On any mariner’s Path, there came a point when he must surrender to the aspect of Kaela Mensha Khaine.
The prospect filled Elrusiad with no dread now.
His soul was molten metal as he looked up with newly blooded eyes. A red haze pooled around the edges of his vision, and where previously he had seen the steady throb of jewel lights and spirit stones, he now felt the rising pulse of war. He could see Marendriel struggling visibly to keep her splayed fingers from curling into claws. Laurelei licked her drawn blade, raising a hiss of steam as though the blade were fresh from Vaul’s anvil.
Elrusiad felt no need to draw his own weapons. His mind was twinned to their greatest weapon. The Ryen Ishanshar purred with the unanimity of violence.
As though he were a farseer assigning the Mark of Doom, Elrusiad raised a finger and singled out the lighter of the two cruisers, which was closing in fast.
His voice was smoke.
‘This one will be first.’
>>> HISTORICAL >> THE BATTLE FOR FABRIS CALLIVANT, 212414.M41
Each of the Imperium’s million worlds exists in a permanent state of war. Sprawling networks of industry and bureaucracy transform the diaspora of far-flung worlds into men and arms on uncounted battlefields. Crops and livestock move across sectors and segmenta. Mineral wealth is stripped, ground down to the raw material for war machines and starships, fed in an endless cataract of bounty into the forge-temples [ACCESS SUB-PACKET >> TREATY OF OLYMPUS] of Holy Mars. Children are tithed to its armies, the innumerable billions raised into the endless grinder of the Imperial Guard. From the noblest civilised world, to the meanest prospect-colony in the Astronomican’s shade, to Mars itself, the economy and culture of every world is shaped by that network of interdependence, and by ten millennia of perpetual and rising threat.
For a world on the front line of the war without end, the scale of the Imperial war machine is staggering to behold.
Fabris Callivant is a Knight world, proud, ancient and home to a ruling house that has governed through an unbroken line of primogeniture since before the Age of Unification.