The Emperor's Gift Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Warhammer 40,000

  Author's Note

  Cast of Characters

  Prologue

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Part Two

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Chapter X

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  Legal

  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 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.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Emperor’s Gift isn’t the book I set out to write. It isn’t the book I planned, and it isn’t the book I told my editor I’d deliver. In most cases, that’s not a big deal. I never stick to an outline. In this case, I decided to scrap everything I’d written and start over.

  Let me explain. The new edition of Codex: Grey Knights dropped halfway through this book, updating their lore and leaving a lot of what I’d written suddenly outdated. I originally had visions of telling the story leading up to the First War for Armageddon. It’s a seminal event in the Warhammer 40,000 setting, and it deserves to be explored. But the more I researched into the archives, the more I realised that the crucial part played by the Grey Knights was, ultimately, a very short-lived one. They did very little in the war itself, beyond striking the final blow.

  (For the record, the character named ‘Aurellian’ isn’t a nod to any of my other work. I’d rather not have to repeat names like that, but it was already established in Grey Knights lore, so I was reluctant to change it.)

  As the deadline for The Emperor’s Gift got closer and closer – then vanished behind me in a familiar blur – I realised that the buildup to the First War for Armageddon wasn’t the story I was telling, any more. I was telling the story of what came before and what came after.

  The First War certainly features in these pages. It’s a fulcrum moment for the characters in this novel, but it’s not the point of the story. Don’t buy this book with the expectation it’s a First War novel. It’s not supposed to be. The First War wasn’t the Grey Knights’ war; it belonged to the heroes of Armageddon, and a certain famous Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes that likes to run in packs and howl at the moon.

  So this isn’t that story. Maybe in time, their story will be told. This is the story of a young warrior, clad in armour as old as humanity’s darkest secrets, as he joins a proud and honourable knightly order. Even more than that, this is the story of how he came to stand at the heart of a venerable squad of sworn brothers, and took part in the most shameful battle the Grey Knights ever fought.

  Like I said, The Emperor’s Gift isn’t the book I set out to write. It isn’t the book I planned, and it isn’t the book I told my editor I’d deliver. I’m glad of that now, but for a while it was pretty terrifying. I started with something in mind, then scrapped the whole book and came at it from a completely different angle.

  So what is it, then?

  That’s a pretty easy question to answer. After looking deep into the lore of Titan’s grey-clad sons, The Emperor’s Gift is the story I wanted to tell.

  Here ends my self-indulgent author’s note.

  You’re on your own now.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  ANNIKA JARLSDOTTYR – Inquisitor, Ordo Malleus.

  AXIUM – Executor Primaris of the Adeptus Mechanicus ‘Palladium Kataphrakt’ coven.

  BRAND RAWTHROAT – Wolf Guard of the Adeptus Astartes Space Wolves Chapter.

  DUMENIDON – Grey Knight, warrior of Squad Castian.

  ENCELADUS – Grey Knight, Sepulcar of the Dead Fields.

  FREDERIC DARFORD – Inquisitorial agent, former lieutenant and sniper in the Mordian Iron Guard 151st Infantry.

  GALEO – Grey Knight, Justicar of Squad Castian.

  GARVEN MERRICK – Inquisitorial agent, former enforcer.

  GHESMEI KYSNAROS – Lord Inquisitor, unaligned.

  GRAUVR – Space Marine of the Adeptus Astartes

  Space Wolves Chapter.

  HYPERION – Grey Knight, pyrokine warrior of Squad Castian.

  JOROS – Grey Knight, Grand Master of the Eighth Brotherhood.

  LOGAN GRIMNAR – ‘The Great Wolf’, High King of Fenris and Chapter Master of the Adeptus Astartes Space Wolves Chapter.

  MALCHADIEL – Grey Knight, telekine warrior of Squad Castian; twin brother of Sothis.

  NADION – Grey Knight, Apothecary of the Eighth Brotherhood.

  RYMIR CLOVON – Inquisitorial agent, former leader of the

  heretical Coppertongue cult.

  SOSA KHATAN – ‘The Khatan’; Inquisitorial agent, former trooper in the 73rd Attilan Rough Riders.

  SOTHIS – Grey Knight, warrior of Squad Castian; twin brother of Malchadiel.

  TALWYN CASTOR – Lifebonded captain of the Grey Knights warship Karabela.

  TAREMAR AURELLIAN – ‘The Gold’; Grey Knight, Brother-Captain of the Third Brotherhood.

  TORCRITH – Grey Knight, Prognosticar of the Augurium.

  VASILLA TERESS – Inquisitorial agent, Sister of the Order of the Scrittura.

  VAURMAND – Grey Knight, Grand Master of the Third Brotherhood.

  ‘One unbreakable shield against the coming darkness,

  One last blade, forged in defiance of fate.

  Let them be my legacy to the galaxy I conquered,

  And my final gift to the species I failed.’

  – Inscription upon the Arcus Daemonica, attributed to the Emperor of Mankind

  PROLOGUE

  AWAKENING

  I

  ‘I don’t know.’

  His life
could be distilled into those three words. What little he remembered of it, anyway.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He said it to the voices, each time they asked him those same questions. They never asked anything else.

  What is your name?

  ‘I don’t know.’

  What year is it?

  ‘I don’t know.’

  There’d be a pause, for exactly six seconds. He’d count the beats in his mind. Sometimes, if it was late in the questioning, his racing heartbeat would throw off his counting. It was never enough. They’d always ask again.

  What is your name? came the voice from nowhere – always male, but not always the same voice.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he’d say to the surrounding emptiness. His voice didn’t echo. The blackness seemed to swallow it whole. He couldn’t even see his hand held up before his face. No amount of staring wide-eyed ever brought clarity to the nothingness.

  What year is it?

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Sometimes, as they questioned him, he’d push his knuckles against his closed eyes, trying to make bright pressure-smears just to bring colour to the darkness.

  It never worked. That’s how he knew he was blind.

  II

  He couldn’t say how long it took for things to change, but change they did: first the question, and then the answer.

  His ‘day’ began the moment his eyes first opened, no different from before. As ever, he couldn’t move beyond the small confines of what he considered his cell. He checked each time he awoke, running his hands along what felt like cold, featureless stone. The stone tasted like salt, and smelled of blood. There was no door.

  What is your name? demanded the voice. A low and aggressively masculine tone, today. Almost angry.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  What year is it?

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He wondered if he’d committed some grievous crime. Perhaps this was his punishment. That made sense, didn’t it? The thought wasn’t a new one, for it often danced through his consciousness, inspiring more fruitless, answerless musing.

  He’d asked the voices before, of course, many times. He’d also learned quickly enough that they were extremely unforthcoming. They would ask, but never answer.

  What is your name?

  He sighed, slinking back to the thin blanket he considered his bed. In the sightless dark, he wrapped the rag around his shoulders, and returned to shivering.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  What year is it?

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He was hungry, which surprised him. He rarely woke feeling hunger. Though he couldn’t remember eating or drinking anything since first waking there, he knew they fed him. Still, the only taste he knew was that the walls left a saline tingle on the tongue, so he suspected his sustenance came through an intravenous process during the hours he was unconscious. The tiny pinpricks along his forearms were always sorest just after he awoke.

  He fingered them now, all the way down to the metal socket plugs at his wrists.

  What is your name?

  He’d answered differently, at first. He’d railed at the unseen voices, demanding answers and insisting he shouldn’t be here. The latter claim always felt more than a little hollow, since he had no idea at all whether he should be there or not. He often wondered if he deserved to be contained as he was. Perhaps he did. Perhaps he was a murderer.

  These thoughts granted him little guilt, for he could remember nothing of his life outside these walls. Penance was an easy trial when one couldn’t recall the sin.

  Eventually, the routine settled into place. He no longer invented names or spat out meaningless syllables. He abandoned the sullen silences, and the equally-ineffective shouted questions. They hurt him whenever he said anything except the truth.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  What year is it?

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He’d never understood just how they hurt him, but the pain would begin in his head and bloom outwards from there. A dull throb behind his eyes would leak to his ears and the roof of his mouth, creeping down his spine. The last time he’d managed to endure it until his fingers felt as if they were aflame. The pain had dripped all the way down his torso, infecting half of his body.

  Pain was a catalyst for honesty. He told the truth after that moment. He told it unfailingly.

  What is your name?

  Was he going to die here? Did he have long left to live? These thoughts struck with greater force than any guilt. Feeling his own flesh never offered much in the way of enlightenment. With no sight for reference, he was reduced to guesswork. Despite not feeling any loose skin, scars or obvious wrinkles, his flesh was grotesquely tight to the bones beneath. That could just as easily be a sign of advanced age as it could suggest malnutrition. He had no idea if it was either, both, or neither.

  It was a bizarre feeling to not even know how old he was, somehow stranger than not knowing his name, or remembering the sin that sentenced him to that cell.

  What is your name? The voice snarled this time.

  Was that a repetition? Had he missed an answer? The pain sparked like a second heartbeat in his head, throbbing in his sinuses and the delicate tissue connecting his eyes to his brain. He had to spit to clear his mouth of the sudden drool-flush.

  Maybe they would kill him if he held back from answering. He’d tried to die that way before, back in the beginning, but the pain always broke him, leaving him weeping and panting, confessing the truth yet again.

  What is your name?

  He looked up, seeing nothing, already feeling the tremble in his fingers as the pain spread with pinching fire down to his jaw. A snorted breath, not quite a laugh, broke from his wet lips. He felt himself smiling, felt the welcome warmth of tears on his face. Perhaps this was what going mad felt like. Perhaps he’d been mad for months already.

  What is your name?

  His cheeks hurt, both from the spreading punishment and the ache of grinning. This shouldn’t be funny, but it was. In a way, it really was. What had he done to belong here? It must have been something bad. Something really, truly bad.

  Was he important? Did he know something they wanted to pry from his skull? If that was the case, they were out of luck; the memory-starved darkness in his head was as empty as the blackness before his eyes.

  That set him laughing again, harder this time.

  ‘My name,’ he began to answer, but crumbled into childish sniggering. The pain ramped up, quicker than before, knifing to his tongue and throat in a quick pulse. He gagged, but didn’t stop grinning. If there’d been anything in his system, he would have thrown it up right then and there.

  What is your name?

  ‘I don’t know.’ The pain receded, but didn’t dissipate completely. He was still locked into a madman’s smile as he drew another breath. ‘I don’t know.’

  He leaned back against the wall, the laughter finally fading. ‘My name is whatever you want it to be. My name is whatever it needs to be, to get me the hell out of here.’

  In an instant, the pain vanished. The voices went with it, leaving him cold, blind, and unsure if he’d passed some kind of test, or failed it.

  III

  When he awoke next, his arms were sore.

  His hands were leaden weights, connected to stone-heavy bones that weighed his muscles down. Even opening his eyes was a trial.

  With a grunt, he reached to feel the tender skin of his forearms. Dots of pain marked the miniscule puncture wounds, and he wondered just how long he’d been unconscious this time. He couldn’t remember going to sleep, but that wasn’t anything new. He could never remember drifting off into welcoming slumber. A hollow absence punctuated his periods of wakening into the cold – he suspected they were rendering him unconscious somehow, rather than letting him succumb to natural sleep.

  Your name is Twenty-six. The voice was gentler now, though still grindingly masculine. He froze, statue-still in the blackness, s
uddenly trembling. You have accepted that you must bear a new name. That is the first step. Your name is Twenty-six.

  ‘My name...’ He had to swallow before getting the words out. ‘My name is Twenty-six.’

  What year is it?

  He licked his lips, fearful of losing what pathetic progress he’d made. ‘I don’t know. I swear, I don’t know.’ It was the truth, but he hesitated, unsure if the truth was enough, any more. He bit his lip far too hard as panic threatened. ‘But I want to know. I want to know the year. What year is it?’

  The expected pause began, and stretched far longer than the routine usually allowed. He was drawing breath to speak when the voice returned.

  It is the year Four-Zero-Six.

  The date meant nothing to him. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to reply. ‘How old am I?’

  Chronologically, you are fifteen Terran standard years of age.

  He almost laughed again. He was barely more than a child. And for so many hours, he’d been thinking he was an old man. The concept was enough to leave him reeling.

  Stand, Twenty-six.

  Despite the nausea, he did as ordered, feeling for the wall and using it as support.

  Open your eyes.

  ‘I…’

  Open your eyes.

  He blinked. Trembling fingertips bumped against the cold, soft surface of his open eyes. He was getting grit in his eyes from his dirty fingers. He had to swallow again. Saliva stringed between his teeth.

  Open your eyes.

  ‘But they are open.’

  Twenty-six, open your eyes.

  ‘They’re open! They are!’

  Twenty-six, open your eyes.

  He moaned in the darkness, beating his fists bloody against the stone wall. ‘They’re open!’

  Twenty-six, open your eyes.

  And then, in fear that bordered on feral, he tried to obey. He tried to open eyes that were already wide.

  That was when he woke up.

  IV

  He didn’t come up slowly this time. He woke with a jolt, and the very first thing he did was scream. Light knifed into his eyes with the merciless kiss of acid poured into a hole. He screamed, dragging cold air into protesting lungs.