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  A WARHAMMER 40,000 STORIES

  DEATHWING

  Edited by Marc Gascoigne & Andy Jones

  «Deathwing»

  Edited by Marc Gascoigne & Andy Jones

  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 arc 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 Emperorʹs 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 arc 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 arc 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.

  «Deathwing»

  Edited by Marc Gascoigne & Andy Jones

  CONTENTS

  Deathwing

  by Bryan Ansell & William King

  7

  Devilʹs Marauders

  by William King

  49

  Pestilence

  by Dan Abnett

  69

  Lacrymata

  by Storm Constantine

  91

  The Alien Beast Within

  by Ian Watson

  117

  Seed of Doubt

  by Neil Mcintosh

  153

  Suffer Not the Unclean to Live

  by Gav Thorpe

  177

  Warped Stars

  by Ian Watson

  203

  Monastery of Death

  by Charles Stross

  245

  Unforgiven

  by Graham McNeill

  265

  «Deathwing»

  Edited by Marc Gascoigne & Andy Jones

  DEATHWING

  Bryan Ansell & William King

  THE PASSAGE OF time is ineluctable, irresistible. It touches everything, and its touch is change. All living beings are doomed to a mayfly existence, their brief efflorescence largely unnoticed among so many millions, billions of others. Only the undying Emperor endures, humanity's light in the darkness. Like the sea beating against a cliff, time wears away all that has been built, all that has been created, all that has been dreamed. History turns into legend, and even legends are slowly changed, finally forgotten.

  What follows is just one of the legends of the Deathwing, the First Company of the Dark Angels chapter. Like all legends, it changes with the telling, so that every one who hears it and retells it perpetuates the process of change. Who can now say what the truth of the matter ever was?

  CLOUD RUNNER GAZED on the wreckage of his home and felt like weeping. He closed his eyes and took three breaths, but when he looked again, nothing had changed. He turned back towards the dropship Deathwing.

  Weasel-Fierce had just descended from the ramp. He gazed round ferally at what once had been Cloud Runner's village and brought his storm bolter into attack position. A grin split his skull-like face.

  'Dark Angels, be wary. Death has walked here,' he said. The sun glistened off Weasel-Fierce's black Terminator armour. With his white hair and Y-shaped scar-tattoos, he looked like the Eater of Bones come back to claim the world.

  Cloud Runner shook his head in disbelief. For two hundred years he had held the memory of this place in his mind. Although the chapter was his home and the battle brothers were his family, he had always felt his spirit would return here when the Emperor granted him rest.

  He glanced in the direction of the burial mounds. They had been broken open.

  Cloud Runner made his way to the entrance. He could see that the bones had been broken and mingled. It was a blasphemy that only the bitterest of foes would perform. It marked the ending of his clan.

  'The ghosts of my ancestors wander homeless,' he said. 'They will become drinkers of blood and eaters of excrement. My clan is dishonoured.'

  He felt a heavy, gauntleted hand on his shoulder and turned to see Lame Bear gazing down on him. Two centuries ago, Cloud Runner and he had belonged to enemy clans. Now the clansmen who they had fought alongside were dead, and the old rivalry had long ago become fast friendship.

  'The Dark Angels are your people now,' Lame Bear said in his soft voice. 'If necessary we will avenge this dishonour.'

  Cloud Runner shook his head. 'That is not the way. The warriors from the sky are above the squabblings of the clans. We choose only the bravest of the plains people. We take no sides.'

  'Your words do honour to the chapter, brother-captain,' Lame Bear said, stooping to pick up something that lay in the grass. Cloud Runner saw that it was a metal axe-head. Sorrow warred with curiosity and won.

  'This was not the homecoming I had imagined,' Cloud Runner said softly. 'Where are children gathering flowers for the autumn feast? Where are the young bucks racing out to count coup on our armour? Where are the spirit-talkers who wish to commune with us? Dead. All dead.'

  Lame Bear limped away, leaving Cloud Runner alone with his grief.

  TWO HEADS TALKING studied the desiccated bodies within the lodge. One had been an old warrior. His shrivelled hand still clutched a stone axe inscribed with the thunderbird rune. The other had been a squaw. Between her skeletal fingers was the neck of an infant.

  'She strangled the child rather than let it fall into the hands of the enemy,' Bloody Moon said. The librarian noticed the undercurrent of horror in the Marine's voice. He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the musty stench that filled the long house.

  'Something evil happened here, but it happened decades ago,' Two Heads Talking replied, seeking to relieve Bloody Moon's superstitious fear. He wanted time to consider, to probe the events of the past. The aura of old terror almost smothered him.

  Shadows lay over this lodge. Something was ominously familiar about the psychic aura of the area.

  'Lord-shaman…' Bloody Moon began.

  The librarian almost smiled. The habits of their ancient former lives had returned in strength now that they once more walked the soil of their homeworld.

  'Brother-librarian is my title, Bloody Moon. You are no longer my honour guard. We are both Marines.'

  'Lord-brother-shaman,' Bloody Moon continued. 'No warriors of the plains would have wrought such havoc. Do you think—'

  'We shall have to investigate, old friend. We must visit the other lodgetowns and speak with their chieftains. If someone has returned to the cust
oms of the reaving time, we will put an end to it.'

  It was rumoured that some of the hill clans still kept to the old daemon-worshipping practices from the time before the Emperor's people came. If that were true, it was up to the Space Marines to take action. Somehow Two Heads Talking did not think it would come to that. This did not have the feel of daemon worshippers, although there was a taint in the air that was akin to it. An almost recognisable horror clawed at his mind. He fought it down and hoped that his suspicions were not true.

  THE CITY REARED above the plain like a soot-grimed leviathan. Cloud Runner spotted it before the others and ordered Lame Bear

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  to land the dropship in a valley, out of sight of its walls.

  From the brow of the hill, he studied it through magnoculars. It was an ugly place that reminded him of the hiveworlds he had visited. It covered many miles and was enclosed by monolithic walls. Great smokestacks loomed in the distance, belching acrid chemical clouds into the greyish sky.

  Outside the walls, the river ran black with poisons. As Cloud Runner watched, he saw herd elk being driven squealing from barges towards great abattoirs within the walls. From huge stone barracks, people swarmed through the streets towards enormous, brick factories.

  Smog drifted everywhere, occasionally obscuring the grimy city and its teeming inhabitants.

  'That is where Lame Bear's metal axe came from,' Two Heads Talking said, lowering himself to the ground beside Cloud Runner.

  'I wonder who built it?'

  'It's a nightmare,' murmured Cloud Runner. 'We return home to find our lodges ravaged and this… abomination in its place.'

  'That city could hold all the clans of all the peoples of the plains and ten times more besides. Could our folk have been enslaved and taken there, brother-captain?'

  Cloud Runner remained silent, considering. 'If they have been, then we will go down with flamer and storm bolter and free them.'

  'We must know more before we act. We could be outnumbered and trapped,' replied the shaman.

  'I say we go in with weapons armed,' said Weasel-Fierce from behind them. 'If we find foes, we burn them.'

  'Suppose they think the same? The soot and filth give the place an orkish look,' said Lame Bear. He had been scouting further along the crest.

  'No ork ever put stone on stone like that,' countered Two Heads Talking. 'That is human workmanship.'

  'It is not the work of the people,' said Cloud Runner. 'Those barracks are a hundred times the size of a lodgehouse and built of brick.'

  'There is only one way to find out anything,' said Two Heads Talking. 'One of us must visit the city.'

  The warriors nodded assent. Each tapped a scar-tattoo to indicate that he volunteered.

  Two Heads Talking shook his head. 'I must go. The spirits will shield me.'

  Cloud Runner saw the rest of the warriors look at him to see what his decision would be. As captain, he could overrule the librarian. He looked at the city, then at the shaman standing quiet and proud before him.

  A sensation of emptiness, of futility came over him. His people, his village had gone.

  'As you wish, lord-shaman. Speak to the spirits and seek their aid,' he said, giving the ancient ritual answer. 'Bloody Moon's squad will remain here to watch over you. The rest of us will take Deathwing and seek out any surviving lodgetowns.'

  NIGHT FELL AS Two Heads Talking completed his preparations. He laid the four rune-etched skulls of his predecessors on the ground about him. Each faced one of the cardinal points of the compass and watched over an approach from the spirit realm.

  He lit a small bonfire in the deep hollow, cast a handful of herbs on the fire and breathed in deeply. He touched the ceremonial winged skull on his chest-piece and then the death's head inlaid on his belt. Lastly, he prayed to the Emperor, tamer of thunderbirds and beacon of the soul path, to watch over him as he made magic. Then he began to chant.

  The fumes from the herbs filled his lungs. He seemed to rise above his body and look down upon it. The other Terminators backed away from the spirit circle. A chill stole over him, and life leeched away until he was close to the edge of death. Great sobs wracked his body, but he mastered himself and continued with the ritual.

  He stood in a cold shadowy place. He sensed chill white presences at the edge of his perception, clammy as mist and cold as the gravemound. Above him he could hear the beating of mighty pinions from where Deathwing, the Emperor's steed and bearer of the souls of the slain, hovered.

  The shaman talked with the presences, made pacts that bound them to his service and rewarded them with a portion of his strength. He sensed the hungry spirits surge around him, ready to shield him from sight, to cloud the eyes of any who might look upon him, causing them to see only a friendly being.

  He walked from the circle, past the watching Marines. As he crested the brow of the hill, he saw the distant city. Even at night, its fires burned, lighting the sky and turning the metropolis into a giant shadow cast upon the land.

  ABOVE THEM, THROUGH the gloom, loomed the Mountains of Storm. Cloud Runner wondered how Lame Bear was taking it. The big man's face was a blank mask. He was not allowing himself to think about what might have happened to his people.

  The Hunting Bear village was the last they had visited: the most remote, built in caves beneath Cloud-Girt Peak. Lame Bear limped up the narrow pathway in the cliff-face.

  Cloud Runner tried not to think of the other lodgetowns they had seen. They had found nothing but desolation and desecrated graves. No living soul except the Marines walked among the fallen totems. They had buried the bodies they had found and offered prayers to the Emperor for the safety of their slain kin.

  Cloud Runner could see Weasel-Fierce pause. The gaunt man's hand played with the feathered hilt of his ceremonial dagger. He studied the ledges above the paths and seemed to sniff the air.

  'No sentries,' he said. 'As a buck, I raided these mountains. The Hunting Bears always had the keenest watchers. If anyone was alive, we would have been challenged by now.'

  'No!' Lame Bear shouted and ran across the lodgetown's threshold and into the caverns.

  'Squad Paulo, overwatch!' Cloud Runner ordered. Five Terminators froze in position, guarding the entrance.

  'The rest of you, follow me. Helmets on. Keep your eyes peeled. Weasel-Fierce, establish a fix on Lame Bear. Don't lose him.'

  Night-lights cut in as they entered the cave mouth. Dozens of tunnels led from the place. Cluttering things flapped away from their lights. For a moment, Cloud Runner allowed himself to feel hopeful. If they were to find any survivors of the plains people, it

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  would be here. In this huge night-black maze Lame Bear's people could have hidden out for years, dodging any pursuit.

  As they followed Lame Bear's locator signal through the warren of tunnels, despair filled Cloud Runner. They passed hallways where the dead lay. Sometimes the bodies were marred by the mark of spear and axe; sometimes they were crashed and mangled by inhuman force. Some had been ripped asunder. Cloud Runner had seen bodies butchered like that before but told himself that it was not possible here. Such a thing could not happen on his homeworld - in vast hulks that lay cold in space, perhaps, but not here.

  They found Lame Bear standing in the largest cave of all. Bones littered the floor. Scuttlers fled from their lights. Lame Bear sobbed and pointed to the walls. Paintings dating from the earliest times covered the caveside, but it was the last and highest-situated representation that drew Cloud Runner's attention. There was no mistaking the four-armed, malevolent form. Hatred and fear chased each other through his mind.

  'Genestealers,' he spat. Behind him, Lame Bear moaned. Weasel-Fierce gave his short, barking laugh. The sound chilled Cloud Runner to the bone.

  TWO HEADS TALKING stalked past the city's open gates. The stench assailed his nostril
s. His concentration faltered, and he could feel the spirits straggling to escape. He exerted his iron will, and the spell of protection fell into place.

  Studying his surroundings, he realised that he had no need to worry. There were no guards, only a toll-house where a pasty-faced clerk sat, ticking off accounts. In its own way this was ominous: the city's builders obviously did not feel threatened enough to post sentries.

  Two Heads Talking studied the scribe. He sat at a little window, poring over a ledger. In his hand was a quill pen. He was writing by the light of a small lantern. Momentarily, he seemed to sense the librarian's presence and looked up. He had the high cheekbones and ruddy skin of the plains people, but there the resemblance ended.

  His limbs seemed stunted and weak. His features had an unhealthy pallor. He gave a hacking cough and returned to his work. His face showed no sign of manhood scars. His clothes were made of some coarse-woven cloth, not elk learner. No weapon sat near at hand, and he showed no resentment at being cooped up in the tiny office rather than being under the open sky. Two Heads Talking found it hard to believe that this was a descendant of his warrior culture.