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WARHAMMER 40,000 STORIES
LET THE GALAXY BURN
Edited by Marc Gascoigne & Christian Dunn
v1.2 (2011.11)
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
EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION
by Marc Gascoigne
WORDS OF BLOOD
by Ben Counter
THE BLACK PEARL
by Chris Pramas
ANGELS
by Robert Earl
UNFORGIVEN
by Graham McNeill
IN THE BELLY OF THE BEAST
by William King
HELLBREAK
by Ben Counter
SMALL COGS
by Neil Rutledge
THE FALL OF MALVOLION
by Dan Abnett
CHILDREN OF THE EMPEROR
by Barrington J Bayley
DEUS EX MECHANICUS
by Andy Chambers
BUSINESS AS USUAL
by Graham McNeill
SALVATION
by Jonathan Green
HELL IN A BOTTLE
by Simon Jowett
TENEBRAE
by Mark Brendan
DAEMONBLOOD
by Ben Counter
KNOW THINE ENEMY
by Gav Thorpe
NIGHTMARE
by Gav Thorpe
ANCIENT HISTORY
by Andy Chambers
THE TOWER
by CS Goto
LOYALTY’S REWARD
by Simon Jowett
RAPTOR DOWN
by Gav Thorpe
DEFIXIO
by Ben Counter
ANCIENT LANCES
by Alex Hammond
ORK HUNTER
by Dan Abnett
THE RAVEN’S CLAW
by Jonathan Curran
EMPEROR’S GRACE
by Alex Hammond
ACCEPTABLE LOSSES
by Gav Thorpe
PESTILENCE
by Dan Abnett
BARATHRUM
by Jonathan Curren
SUFFER NOT THE UNCLEAN TO LIVE
by Gav Thorpe
THE LIVES OF FERAG LION-WOLF
by Barrington J Bayley
PLAYING PATIENCE
by Dan Abnett
SNARES & DELUSIONS
by Matthew Farrer
APOTHECARY’S HONOUR
by Simon Jowett
UNTHINKING JUSTICE
by Andras Millward
BATTLE OF THE ARCHAEOSAURS
by Barrington J Bayley
THE WRATH OF KHARN
by William King
INTO THE MAELSTROM
by Chris Pramas
EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION
Marc Gascoigne
PREPARE FOR IMPACT!
Brace yourselves. Splints at the ready. Hot towels and narthecium on standby. This is the big one. Let’s face it, you really need power armour to haul this sucker around for very long. Because inside this ultra-hefty, Imperial Titan-sized collection you’ll find a full thirty-eight great stories* from the decaying future nightmare that is Warhammer 40,000. We’ll take you from the crenellated battle barges of the heretic Traitor Marines to the forgotten asylums of the Imperium, bolter at the ready and thirsting for alien blood.
So just what is it that makes a Warhammer 40,000 short story a great one? It’s a question we asked ourselves every day, as we sifted through the piles of stories submitted for the Black Library range over the years, and it’s one we continue to employ as we assess potential novels for our thriving fiction line. In our writers’ guides, we go into great length, but when pushed to summarise we tend to boil it down to two basic rules: be true to the Warhammer universe, and be any good. And to be blunt, we think the various stories collected in this mammoth brick of a book fulfil both of those criteria.
Of course, there’s a mass of expertise and sheer hard work behind hitting both of those criteria. The 40K universe is a complicated and detailed one, and anyone reporting back from the front lines better know what they are talking about. But more than that it has a certain true feel, a texture of dark despair and ceaseless conflict, a galaxy where mankind knows that pure survival is worth any sacrifice, even its humanity.
There is also the comforting (if such a word can ever be used for such a devastated and wartorn time) knowledge that the 40K universe is such a rich and varied one. Let’s face it, it’s a big galaxy out there. Over two decades, Warhammer 40,000 has transcended its influences and taken on a living, breathing and above all fighting life of its own. This wide selection of tales from this rich setting pokes an inquisitive eye into all corners, from the front lines where countless warriors battle under blazing skies, to the dusty, most heretical corners where only the Inquisition dare to crawl. In the grim darkness of the future, we say, there is only war. But what a war, fought on so many different battlefields, both traditional and obscure.
The traditional definition of any rattling good short story, as opposed to something longer and with complication such as a novel, tends to involve the suggestion of a problem to be solved, or a twist away from the norm – a classic “but what if…” question. To single out just one, there is a story you will soon be reading, one of my own favourites, that combines that approach with a knowing piece of Warhammer 40,000 detail. In “Words of Blood”, the set-up is a classic one. The noble Space Marine warriors, the Black Templars, it is said, never retreat. Normally that’s not a problem, says author Ben Counter, more a statement of their underlying ethos as the galaxy’s toughest elite – but what if they absolutely have to, what if retreat is the only possible way to defeat their enemy? As you’ll see shortly, it’s not without a good deal of soul-searching and dissension.
There’s a Thunderhawk’s payload worth of “what if…” in this collection and it’s ready for take-off. Let the galaxy burn? You heard what the great man said. Pull that lever.
— Marc Gascoigne The Inner Chambers of the Black Library, 2006
* Please believe us, we really did try to squeeze in forty. (Sorry.)
WE ARE THE SPACE MARINES, THE CHAMPIONS OF HUMANITY
WORDS OF BLOOD
Ben Counter
DAY HAD NEA
RLY broken on Empyrion IX. Commander Athellenas glanced above him at the stars fading against the light of the planet’s sun. He could still just see the silver dagger hanging in orbit, the renegade ship that was waiting to drop down onto the lone spaceport and rescue the heathen horde that was stranded here.
He had thirty Marines. Thirty Marines to halt an army that never gave up, never felt pain, who existed only to draw blood from the holy Imperium of man.
But Athellenas knew he must succeed. This temple on the outskirts of the planet’s lone abandoned city dated back from the Great Crusade, when the people of the Imperium spontaneously elevated the Emperor to Godhood before His worship was taken over by the bureaucrats of the Ecclesiarchy – and it was by the faith that had built this temple that he swore no heretic would leave this planet alive.
Sergeant Valerian scrambled over the ruined outer wall of the temple, keeping low to avoid detection. ‘Commander, they are sighted. They have left their ship.’
‘Damage?’
‘They came down shallow. Most of them survived.’
‘Numbers?’
Valerian paused, a frown passing over his old, gnarled features. ‘It is better that you see for yourself, commander.’
The devastator sergeant handed Athellenas the scope from the squad’s lascannon. Athellenas made his way to the temple perimeter, from where the great smoking hulk of the crashed renegade craft could be seen, scarred and pitted, against the grey, pre-dawn sky.
He looked through the scope and saw the enemy for the first time. He counted them automatically – one batch stripping the dead, another, cavalry, dragging stubborn horses from the ship’s hold, and a third group, the largest, surrounding the leader. They were cultists, and far gone – most of them shirtless and wearing the jackets of their uniforms tied around their waists; barefoot, their skins scarred and painted with blood, armed with whatever they had salvaged. Lasguns, knives, shards of twisted metal, a couple of heavy weapons on carriages pulled by the riders’ horses. Every cultist had that same wide-eyed look, the look of rage mixed with desperation and unacknowledged fear, the emotions of treachery waiting to boil over at any second. Athellenas added up their numbers. Six thousand, give or take.
And the leader. If proof was needed that this was the work of the Blood God, he was it. Tall, not massively muscular, but wiry and powerful, almost glowing with pent-up energy. Dressed only in bloodstained cloth wrapped around his waist, black straggly hair, a violent, unshaven face, his skin covered in scars and branded with heathen symbols. One arm was gone, replaced with a pair of hydraulic industrial shears so big the tips reached the ground. The blades were pitted and worn, but even in the weak light the savagely sharp edge shone silver. He was talking animatedly to the heretics who surrounded him, his eyes flashing, his words so charged and evil that even though he was out of earshot, Athellenas could feel their power.
‘Valerian?’
‘Commander?’
‘Take note. We have found the Gathalamor 24th.’
‘The Manskinner? But he’s—’
‘He’s a lot more than a rumour, Valerian. He’s real, and he’s here. He has the four thousand from Gathalamor and more. Probably the Guryan mutineers, and some cavalry.’ Athellenas handed back the scope. ‘Prepare a defensive position. The Manskinner will know we are here. He will attack with the sun.’
As Valerian gave instruction to the dug-in devastators, and the tactical and assault squads checked their weapons again for the fight that was to come, Athellenas ran over the rumours and official denials. That the famously pious planet of Gathalamor should supply the renegades for the Manskinner’s army was too much for the Ecclesiarchy to admit. They had insisted the Manskinner was a rumour dreamed up by their enemies in the Administratum.
Athellenas’s loyalty lay with Terra, not the Ecclesiarchy, but he, for one, would be happy to do them a favour and quell this rumour for good. And what rumours…
They said the Manskinner was nothing more than a criminal. He was being transported from a hive world – some said Necromunda, others Lastrati – when he broke out somehow. A bulkhead used to seal the brig had taken his arm off during the attempt, but the massive shock and blood loss had not killed him; he survived and fought on, and the last entries in the log of the drifting, burnt-out prison ship recorded how the plasma reactor was being tampered with and was about to go critical. The charred bodies of all those on board were recovered, save one.
It was on Gathalamor that the Manskinner turned up next and earned his name. Those officers in the regiment he infiltrated who opposed him were butchered in the night and their flayed skins run up the barrack’s flag poles. Within three days of his arrival, it was said, several thousand of the planet’s most trusted Guardsmen had disappeared, taking a troop transport ship from orbit as they did so, leaving a blood-soaked altar of skulls in the centre of their parade ground as if to mock those who stayed behind.
These were the tales that seemed to have substance. Others were just anecdotes and stories, about how the Manskinner could turn men to Chaos with his words alone, about the strange omens that accompanied him, and the abnormalities in the Astronomican which had confounded the spacecraft attempting to pursue his army.
Athellenas had been a commander for a long time, and a Space Marine for longer. He had learned that when cautious men believe nothing they have not seen, a true leader can sift truth from lies.
And there was a truth here, of the sheer monstrosity of the Manskinner, a force that corrupted the staunchest of men with horrifying ease. From foes such as him the Imperium had the most to fear – for it was built on the souls of its subjects, those same souls that the Manskinner was making his own.
‘BROTHERS! SONS OF blood! This day, we face the final enemy. Some amongst you may believe the Blood God has seen fit to test us once more before we can truly worship him with the sacrifice of a million Macharian lives.’
The words of blood cut right into their minds, driving them to further heights of bloodlust. The Manskinner had never felt more grateful for the gift of the words – no army, no Marine, could stand before men who knew nothing but the joy of carnage.
‘But the truth, sons of blood, is that such have we pleased him that he has given us yet more skulls to take! And what skulls! The Marines, the scum of humanity, the Imperium’s blind machines, are here, to die in His name and prove His power to the weak!’
The Manskinner raised his remaining arm high, and the crowd around him cheered madly, screaming their insane joy at the battle to come.
Many had died in the crash, and still more were wounded or weak – their very bloodlust would kill them. Still, they were many. They would charge across the planet’s lone city and take the spaceport, and their brothers in orbit would carry them the rest of their journey to Macharia, and on that world of thirty billion souls, his army would die in an orgy of carnage in the name of the Blood God. It was impossible to imagine the numbers that would die, the mindless hordes of the weak put to the sword before the last cultist died.
Such would be the pleasure of the Blood God, that he, the Manskinner, would become his chosen, an immortal champion murdering the very stars in His name.
‘Brothers!’ he called again over the din. ‘Tend to your arms! the Imperial filth will die at the rising of the sun!’
The cultists scattered to prepare themselves: to load guns and sharpen blades, scar fhemselves, and contemplate the glorious acts of murder to come. Recoba, once a corporal, now commanding the four thousand Gathalamor rebels, bellowed orders and cracked heads. Kireeah, who had joined the Manskinner with over two thousand men from the Planetary Defence Force on Guryan, was rather more subtle, making sure his men could see his finger on the trigger of his duelling laspistol at all times.
‘Diess!’ yelled the Manskinner.
The rider galloped up on his jet-black horse. The beast’s nostrils were flecked with foaming blood and its eyes bulged, but even this animal was infected by the power of the words o
f blood. Diess himself, young and breathlessly eager, sat bolt upright, cavalry sword raised in salute, still wearing his tattered officer’s uniform.
‘Sir! My Lord Manskinner!’
‘Diess, to you goes the honour of first blood. You and your men will be the first to hit the Marines’ position. Hit hard. If you can take some alive, do so. They will provide sport for the rest. If not, let nothing survive.’
Even Diess smiled at this. ‘Thank you, my lord! This is a glorious day for Colcha!’
‘Everyone on Colcha wants you dead, Diess. This is a glorious day for the Blood God.’
‘Sir, yes sir!’ Diess galloped off, infused with that strange joy that only the Blood God could give a man in the moments before battle.
The Manskinner could taste his victory on the air. The dry ground of Empyrion IX would run red before the day was out.
The first rays of the sun broke around the hulk of the cultists’ spacecraft. Diess’s horsemen, three hundred strong, spurred their mounts into motion as one and thundered across the plain towards the broken obsidian shell of the temple. Many of the foot troops followed them, waving their salvaged weapons and screaming with bloodlust, hoping that when they reached the temple there would be some Marines left alive for them.
Even as the first lasgun shots cut through the air, the Manskinner could feel the Blood God smiling down upon him from His throne of skulls in the warp.
Blood, keened a familiar voice in his head.
Blood for the Blood God.
‘FIRE!’ YELLED VALERIAN, his old, battered face creased with rage and indignation. The devastator squad’s weapons sprouted sudden blossoms of flame and the first wave of heretic cavalry fell, some men shot off the backs of their mounts, some with their horses cut in half, all falling to the ground in clouds of dust.
But the horsemen kept on coming, their horses’ hides smeared black with engine oil, beast and rider branded and scarred, the eyes both black with blood-madness. Those who had weapons which could shoot returned fire and a score of lasgun shots impacted against the black stone of the temple. Some hit the armour of the dug-in tactical and assault squads. None penetrated.