Blackstone Fortress
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Andy Hoare
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Guy Haley
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BOOK 2: PLAGUE WAR
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BOOK 2: INCARNATION
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BOOK 1: THE TALON OF HORUS
BOOK 2: BLACK LEGION
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2: PREDATOR, PREY
3: THE EMPEROR EXPECTS
4: THE LAST WALL
5: THRONEWORLD
6: ECHOES OF THE LONG WAR
7: THE HUNT FOR VULKAN
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10: THE LAST SON OF DORN
11: SHADOW OF ULLANOR
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OVERFIEND
Contains the White Scars, Raven Guard and Salamanders novellas Stormseer, Shadow Captain and Forge Master
ARMAGEDDON
Contains the Black Templars novel Helsreach and novella Blood and Fire
Legends of the Dark Millennium
ASTRA MILITARUM
An Astra Militarum collection
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An Ultramarines collection
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Contents
Cover
Backlist
Title Page
Warhammer 40,000
Before
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After
About the Author
An Extract from ‘Dark Imperium: Plague War’
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
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.
Before
How they would have wept to hear him. All those years of brutal tutelage, so many prayers meted out with an unsparing stick, and not one of their aphorisms had stayed with him – all that cant wiped away by the savagery of the war. Only one simple phrase, whispered to the rhythm of his breath, had kept him alive. Through the needle’s eye. He could see it in his mind – a sliver of sanity, surrounded by a galaxy of madness. I live or die.
In place of a sky, it seemed Sepus Prime wore a dirty, sodden cloth, stained the same feculent shade of dun as the mud below. It sagged low over the fly-clad marshes, bleeding a desolate rain, crushing the mounds of dead and billowing around a shame-faced sun. Glutt waded through the filth, a slight man weighed down by a heavy coat. His face was a mask of dark, viscous mud, and his mouth was hidden by a rebreather. Only his eyes were visible – flashes of white beneath a peaked cap, scouring the trench for the shot that would finally kill him.
‘Through the needle’s eye,’ he whispered, risking a glimpse into no-man’s-land, using his staff to haul himself over a broken trench wall.
Fumes lay heavy on the swamp, crawling lazily over shattered gun emplacements and crook-backed trees. Even through his rebreather Glutt could smell the chemical stink of enemy weapons. How many of the regiment were still alive out there? Betrayed. Clawing at their throats, calling for loved ones, begging for the help they were promised. The reinforcements that never came. They never came. They had all been fools, but he would be a fool no more. Anger fractured Glutt’s thoughts, dangerous and raw. He recited his mantra with vehemence, clinging to his mind, weighing it down with words.
He pulled out a map and wiped it clean, tracing a finger over the gridlines, counting the miles. He was close. Another few hours and he would see the barracks. He had no desire to rejoin the regiment now, after all that he had seen, but where else could he go? He had no vox and he dared not risk any other method of communication, and this side of the valley seemed to have been forgotten. The earth shivered beneath a mortar shell rain, but it was a distant sound, like the echo of a storm.
An image flashed through his mind, so vivid he gasped – pale, ruptured flesh tearing over a clinker-black shell. He drove the vision down but it coiled beneath his thoughts, waiting for his guard to slip. He had seen it countless times over the last few months. It was horrific, but part of him was also fascinated. It was so clear. What did it mean?
He was about to drop back down into the trench when he saw movement i
n the smoke – half a mile away, near a bombed-out gun emplacement. He grabbed his laspistol and peered through the scope.
‘Sorov?’ he whispered, catching a glimpse of red sash.
There was another blur of movement, then nothing. Only the lolling, yellow fumes and the sporadic grumble of mortars. He had not seen a soul for two days. Perhaps he imagined the shapes? Then he heard a faint crackling – not the rattle of gunfire, but the white noise of a vox-unit. It came from the gun emplacement.
He dropped into the bunker, his breath coming in snatched bursts. Insurrectionists were everywhere. Snipers haunted every gully, masquerading as corpses, lying patiently beneath cold limbs, waiting for some fool to break cover. Again he heard the crackle of vox traffic, muted by the fumes but unmistakable.
He peered up over the scorched embrasure, looking through the gunsight again, trying to guess where a sniper might hide. There was a rusted tank chassis, halfway to the gun emplacement, jutting from the mud like an unearthed fossil: a Leman Russ, one of its sponsons still visible, pointing defiantly at the leaden clouds. Just the kind of place a sniper might wait. He looked in the other direction. There was a trench, parallel with his, about a hundred feet away. It had caved in, sporting a crest of broken joists and blast-warped girders. Again, exactly the kind of place snipers might hide. There were cadavers in the razorwire, swaying in the breeze like abandoned marionettes. It looked as though they had been thrown clear of the trench by an air strike, but he had seen traitors adopt that pose, then lurch into movement at the first sign of a target.
‘Lieutenant Sorov?’ he whispered. Could he still be alive? And if he was, why would he be here? The push on the civitate had started. Sorov always led from the front. Why would he be back here, so far from the front line? The thought that the lieutenant might still be alive shook Glutt’s resolve. Sorov had stood by the men. He alone in all the regiment seemed worthy of trust.
Glutt hunkered in the trench, crippled by indecision. The image of torn flesh washed through his thoughts again, but he crushed it with his mantra, determined to think clearly. What if it was Sorov out there? Could there still be another route for him, even now?
Glutt bolted up the trench wall and ran through the smoke, head down, flicking his pistol from the tank to the corpses. His footfalls rang out through the smog. Slap. Slap. Slap. Flies whirled around him, drawn by his blood-black coat. Sweat pooled in his eyes. He tried to sprint, but his legs were wasted from lack of food and the mud gripped his heavy boots, leaching what little strength he had left.
Minutes passed until finally the gun emplacement reared up before him, brutal and angular, a slab of pitted rockcrete shattered by artillery. One side was intact, but the other was gone, leaving the surreal sight of a furnished room, split down the middle and hanging in the air. The furniture was undisturbed: a neatly made bunk, metal plan chests, a small dining table; all perched in the clouds, washed clean by the endless rain.
Glutt had almost reached the walls when he heard someone snap the safety off a lasgun.
He staggered to a halt, his heart thudding as he tried to pinpoint the sound.
‘The savant?’ The words were spoken quietly, but they echoed across the swamp, eerie and dislocated.
‘Lieutenant Sorov?’ gasped Glutt, still crouched, staring at the shifting clouds.
‘Throne,’ said Sorov, striding into view, flanked by Guardsmen, their lasguns trained on Glutt.
‘In,’ he snapped, waving for Glutt to approach.
Glutt staggered forwards, into the arms of the Guardsmen, who grabbed his filthy coat and hurled him inside the ruined tower.
As Glutt lay panting on the floor, Sorov and the others stood over him, scowling.
Sepus Prime could not touch Lieutenant Sorov. He shrugged it off like an idle threat. He was one of those officers with the inhuman ability to look clean, fresh and unperturbed as the galaxy went to hell around them. His hair was immaculate, oiled and gleaming beneath his cap, and the buttons on his coat flashed proudly as he moved. An old scar curved from the corner of his mouth to his ear, but even that looked deliberate – just another military honour. He studied Glutt through half-lidded eyes.
‘Where is the rest of your detail?’
‘We never made it to the front lines, lieutenant. The insurrectionists were on us before we reached Tadmor Ridge. I was able to–’ He hesitated, noting the wary expressions of the Guardsmen. ‘I was able to disable some of them, but there were too many.’
‘You’re a psyker?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You abandoned your men?’
‘No.’
‘They’re dead,’ said Sorov, his expression blank, ‘and you are not.’
‘I did everything I could, lieutenant.’
Sorov studied him in silence. No one helped him to his feet.
The silence was broken by the crackle of the vox-unit. There was another trooper crouched a few feet away – a comms officer, hunched over his vox-caster.
‘Ten minutes until contact,’ said the Guardsman, with the handset held to his ear. There was a tremor of excitement in his voice. ‘Everything went to plan.’
Sorov closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again he looked back at Glutt. ‘Tell me, Glutt,’ he said. ‘If you were a traitor, why would you have stumbled over here and revealed yourself, rather than using your talents to kill me from a safe distance?’
Glutt struggled to keep his expression neutral. Traitor. Sorov had pinpointed the doubts that had haunted him for weeks. All he saw on Sepus were pitiable fools and callous, inhuman orders. His faith was gone. What did that leave?
‘There is no reason,’ said Sorov. His expression softened. ‘You’ve done well to last this long, soldier. Not many have.’ He nodded to his men. ‘Pick him up. And keep an eye on him. He’s a sanctioned psyker. Don’t let him ruin this.’
As the Guardsmen dragged Glutt from the mud, Sorov headed over to the comms officer.
‘Korbol,’ he said, glancing up at the shattered floor of the room above their heads. ‘Anything?’
‘Nothing, lieutenant.’
Sorov nodded, and then glanced back at Glutt. ‘Over here.’
Glutt tried to brush some of the muck from his coat as he rushed after Sorov, but it had dried into a thick crust. He moved with the clumsy, awkward steps of an automaton.
‘Get me Kapek,’ said Sorov to the vox-officer.
There was another burst of static, then a voice came through the speakers, ghostly and hazed by distance, like an old recording.
‘This is Sergeant Kapek. We have–’ The voice was cut off by a series of pops and whistles. ‘We are no closer, lieutenant. Heavier losses than anticipated. The aerial strikes failed to knock out the lascannons. They’re cutting us down.’
Sorov grabbed the handset. ‘Ten minutes, sergeant.’ His voice was an urgent whisper. ‘Ten minutes more.’
There was a pause on the other end, but it was not static this time; they could all hear the sergeant breathing. ‘Ten minutes?’ he said finally, sounding shocked.
Sorov raised his voice, despite the risk of revealing himself. ‘Throw everything you have left at them for ten more minutes. It’s working. He’s headed your way.’
This time there was no pause. ‘Ten minutes, lieutenant. We’ll do it.’
Sorov looked pained and seemed on the verge of saying more, but he held it back.
‘Lieutenant,’ came the voice again. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Sergeant.’
The voice sounded defiant this time, all trace of doubt gone. ‘It was an honour, lieutenant.’
Sorov’s expression tightened. When he spoke again, his voice was as rigid as his face. ‘High command will know, sergeant. Commander Ortegal will know what happened here today.’
Another series of pops and crackles hissed through
the speaker.
‘Kapek out,’ came the reply, then the line went dead.
Sorov stared at the handset for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and handed it back to the comms officer, turning to face the other men. ‘I give them five minutes, but it will suffice. By the time the insurrectionists wipe them out we’ll have hit our target.’ Sorov looked at the comms officer. ‘Federak. These are the exact coordinates?’
Federak was wiry and short, with the slabby, knocked-about face of a prize fighter. ‘This is the right emplacement, lieutenant,’ he said. ‘If Gorny got his maths right, the shuttle will pass right overhead.’
‘Good.’ Sorov looked around the group. One of the Guardsmen was carrying a rocket launcher over his shoulder. ‘If you get even one clear shot, you’ll be lucky.’
The trooper nodded. ‘Sir.’
Sorov stared at him. ‘We’ve thrown everything into this. There are a few hundred men left at the barracks, but you saw the state of them. There will be no more chances. This is it.’
The man saluted. ‘One shot will be enough, sir.’
Sorov nodded, then waved at the damaged upper floor of the tower. ‘Into position.’
He glared at the rest of the troopers. ‘Am I so pretty you can’t take your eyes off me? Watch the damned trenches. Keep yourselves alive for a few minutes and you might even get off this rancid planet.’ He caught sight of Glutt. ‘You keep out of the way.’ He leant closer, tapping the eagle-shaped head of Glutt’s staff. ‘I’m no fan of witches, sanctioned or not. Throne preserve you if I catch you trying any parlour tricks.’
Glutt saluted.
Sorov nodded to the pistol at Glutt’s belt. ‘You know how to use that thing. Join the others and watch the bunkers.’
Glutt saluted and rushed to stand beside the comms officer.
‘What are you doing out here?’ he whispered, once Sorov had climbed up into the room overhead to join the trooper with the rocket launcher.
Federak gave him a suspicious look. Glutt felt like proving his suspicions right, showing him what a psyker could really do, but he thought of the needle, biding his time. He had no clear plan. He no longer believed in the regiment, but what did he believe in?
‘The governor’s going to pass over this way,’ muttered Federak, waving his gun at the clouds. ‘He thinks he’s won. He’s racing to Tadmor Ridge to deal with Sergeant Kapek and the rest of those poor sods. Sorov got a man into his inner circle. The pilot. We know the exact route he’s taking. He’s going to pass over this spot in a few minutes.’