It was the sound of Rushal’s meteor hammer that dragged Sevatar back to himself, tearing his eyes away from the spark-shedding divinities trying to kill each other on the platform above. The Raven whirled his flail in a heavy, propeller-blade circle, idling in a whoosh of ionised air. Blood sizzled on the mace head hanging from the end of the chain, its energy field burning all gore away into foul-smelling steam.
The Raven pointed with his free hand. Warriors in armour as black as his own were still running in from the twenty corridors opening out into this transit hub of hanging chains and raised gantries.
Sevatar vaulted a railing, dropping down another level, smashing boots-first into a melee in which several of his Terminator brothers were outnumbered by Dark Angels. The first foe went down, his head severed by a single sweep of the First Captain’s chainglaive. The second lost a hand, then most of his face. The third and fourth dropped from being disembowelled in the same swing.
It was happening again. Was he faster than everyone else, or were they slower? Every enemy he faced betrayed themselves in the subtlest ways. He saw a tension in the joints of their armour – each one a premonition of where their next blow would come from. Sevatar blocked them all with the ease of a soldier seeing every strike coming, lashing back before they could retaliate.
It wasn’t happening again; it was worse than ever before. Or… better? Lactic acid burned his muscles and the pressure behind his eyes threatened to break his skull from within, but each beat of his heart made everyone move slower and slower. He took a chainsword against the haft of his spear, and had time to spin, teeth clenched, to ram his glaive through the chest of a tabarded paladin behind him, before turning back to catch the first Dark Angel’s next blow. As he did, he saw the minuscule adjustment in balance signifying the exact angle of his enemy’s next attack. Sevatar impaled him before the move even began, standing face to face with the dying warrior as the chainglaive hewed its way through the other warrior’s innards.
Blackness edged across his retinal display. It took several seconds to realise it wasn’t blood in his helm, but a stain physically darkening his eyes. Something popped in his skull, something rupturing with a wet, bursting gush of fluid. His own life signs, scrawled across his eye-lens readout, twitched no differently from the primarch’s jagged fury.
He could hear his brothers shouting his name now. They thought he’d been wounded, and he wasn’t sure they were wrong.
Trez’s warning scalded its way through his mind’s eye, as if the words were written in fire upon flesh, rather than recalled through memory’s voice.
This will probably kill you, Jago.
You have the strength for this. But not the control.
There’s no going back from this. If you unlock the gift you’ve fought so hard to forget… Some doors cannot be closed.
He staggered, down to one knee, using the fall to cleave the legs out from the closest Dark Angel. The warrior cried out, dying a heartbeat later with Sevatar’s glaive through his chestplate.
I might be dying, he thought, and started laughing.
‘Valzen!’ someone was screaming. ‘Valzen, Sevatar is down! Apothecary!’
He turned his head to see Rushal standing above him, a sentinel in absolute black. The Raven swung his meteor hammer, the arc ending in a burst of lethal light as it cracked the helm of yet another Dark Angel.
The warrior of the First Legion went down in silence, because everything was silent now. Rushal’s meteor hammer no longer boomed with every impact. Sevatar’s own erratic life signs no longer whined warnings at him. His world wasn’t a chaotic storm of thudding boots, detonating bolt-rounds, and wrenching armour joints. It was, somehow, serene.
Sevatar vomited into his helm, forced to choke on his own bile because he couldn’t stop laughing.
And then, he was home.
Home. The city at night. The rooftop where he came to hide.
The sunless world hadn’t burned in his primarch’s misguided, futile rage after all. He was home, standing in the promise of rain before the true storm, and the pressure in his head was just as it had always been as a child: threatening to bubble over into a fit that would leave him shaking.
Food, food, food, they called at him.
He turned to them, where they pecked at the rockcrete rooftop and fluttered their ragged feathers.
Boy, Boy, Boy, they cackled. Food, food, food, and Now, now, now.
Jago reached into his pockets, offering a handful of breadcrumbs. Come, he said to the crows. Food for tonight.
Flesh, flesh, flesh, they called back.
He laughed as several of the black birds landed on his shoulders and outstretched arm.
Flesh, he agreed. Flesh soon. Breadcrumbs now.
Flesh now, flesh now. He let them complain as they took the breadcrumbs, each chunk pebble-hard and stale.
Flesh now, he said to them once they were finished. Wait.
He wasn’t gone long, but he was dizzy and sweating by the time he returned. Dragging the other boy’s body up the stairs left his arms sore and stretched.
Flesh, flesh, flesh, the crows cawed.
Jago dropped the dead boy’s ankles and sat down, catching his breath. Flesh, he replied. Save me some, he said to the birds as they flocked down onto the corpse.
Yes, Boy, they kept cackling. Yes, yes, yes. Save some for Boy.
You can have the eyes, he told them. I don’t like the eyes. They croaked crow laughter at this oldest of jokes between them. They knew the Boy never ate the eyes. He’d tried once, and the meal had made him see things. The Boy bled sweet man-blood from his nose and ears for hours, and slept all night, twitching on the stone.
Jago sat in silence while they ate, listening to the flutter of dark wings and enjoying the brush of mangy feathers against his cheeks. No other sound ever soothed him. No other feeling ever took away the headaches long enough for him to sleep.
Epilogue
Traitors
They’d thrown him into a cell, stripped of his weapons and armour. That was wise.
They’d incarcerated him with nine of his brothers. That was less wise.
Sevatar leaned back against the force wall, listening to the sound of his brothers’ easy breathing, subsumed in part by the half-living pulse moving through the energy field all around them. The Invincible Reason was in the warp. Where they were going, Sevatar could only guess.
He knew Curze had brought almost seven hundred warriors from the Excoriator in his hasty and ill-advised assault. Var Jahan had been one of them. Perhaps his Kyroptera brother was held in another cell. He toyed with the notion of believing it, but he wasn’t a soul ever given to blind hope.
They didn’t have the primarch. That much, he knew for certain. His surviving brothers spoke of it – of the Dark Angels’ final overwhelming assault – and Lord Curze at last realising the odds sweeping his sons into early graves.
He’d turned from the Lion in that moment, turned from the battle… and fled.
If Curze still lived, he was haunting the lower decks of the Invincible Reason even now. Perhaps he was coming to free his sons, but again, Sevatar wasn’t one to hold out in the name of unrealistic hope.
He knew the fleet had run; Admiral Yul’s plan had worked in part, at least. The fifty ships remaining behind had powered through the Dark Angels’ wider formation with all the lethal efficiency of a needle lancing a boil. He’d seen at least half of them punch through to the other side, and he’d seen a handful starting to tear their way into the warp. But he knew nothing more. The Excoriator was probably destroyed. The Nightfall almost definitely was.
So Trez was dead, along with Taye. The former was a shame, for the primarch needed the little eater of dreams. The latter was a shame for the most irrational of reasons; one Sevatar wasn’t comfortable admitting to any of his brothers, let alone the human maiden her
self. He felt the same about four other mortals in service to the Legion, and he monitored each of them with care for the very same reason.
Dwelling on long-dead family and their resemblance to living humans over a century later had its place, but this cell wasn’t it. Besides, he didn’t know for sure. They might be his blood-kin – the descendants of the cousins he left behind when he left Nostramo – but there was no way to know for sure. The world was an urban battlefield in the last century of its life, with a scavenging population keeping no civility or morality, let alone historical records. He couldn’t shake the sense of connection with them, just as he couldn’t shake how much they resembled the family he’d once known.
Sevatar pushed the melancholy thought aside with no real difficulty. He wasn’t a doleful soul, just as he wasn’t an optimistic one.
At least in captivity, Sevatar had time to plot, to muse, to process. The Thramas Crusade was over. Most of the VIII Legion had escaped, scattering to the solar winds. The bulk of the Night Lords would join the march on Terra, though he doubted many would ever stay at the front lines long enough to besiege the Throneworld. He sensed a great deal of raiding for plunder in the Legion’s approaching future. The thought would’ve made him smile, if he’d been anywhere else but a Dark Angels containment cell, caged by a cube of shimmering force.
The first cell they’d thrown him into had been a more conventional trap of reinforced iron. Sevatar had spat his way through one wall in less than fifteen minutes, dissolving it with his acidic saliva. When a guard came to check on him, he’d merely pointed at the hissing hole in the wall, almost large enough for him to fit through.
‘I think rats did it,’ he’d said. ‘Big ones.’
The Dark Angels had moved him from the cell, throwing him into a force cage with several of his brothers – each of whom had evidently ruined their own cells, just as he had.
Lacking the protection of armour to hide his augmentations from their eyes, Valzen was a wretched thing, more chrome and haemolubricant fluid than blood and bone.
‘Stop staring at me,’ he said to Sevatar. His one black eye narrowed, his bionic lens trying to tilt and adjust in weak mimicry.
‘I was merely thinking,’ the First Captain said, ‘you are a testament to the Legion’s refusal to obey anything or anyone. You were too stubborn even to die on Isstvan.’
Several of the others chuckled. Even Valzen offered a crooked sneer, the smile one-sided not from any wry charm, but because one side of his face was a stroke victim’s bland visage.
‘Why did you order us into this attack?’ asked Tal Vanek. ‘The Atramentar survived Isstvan, only to die to the last dozen in this suicidal madness?’
Sevatar raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Is now really the time for petty recrimination?’
Tal Vanek grinned back, all teeth and wide, black eyes. ‘Never a better time, Sev.’
‘The primarch ordered this attack.’
Several of the warriors muttered in response. ‘The primarch,’ Tal Vanek replied, ‘is a fool and a madman. Those who didn’t know it before certainly see it now.’
This proclamation earned a general murmur of agreement. Sevatar had neither the patience nor the inclination to debate philosophy.
‘We’ll see,’ was all he said.
The only one of them to remain silent the whole while was Rushal. The Raven’s white skin, bare without his charcoal plate, was criss-crossed with dozens of aggravated scars – marks of excruciation, inflicted through torture, not earned in honest battle. He watched Sevatar from across the cell, his posture mirroring the First Captain’s as they sat with their backs to the force screens.
Sevatar nodded to the Raven. ‘I just realised I was wrong,’ he said. ‘I promised myself I wouldn’t lose to the Angels twice.’
Rushal’s scarred, split lips twisted into the ugly smile Sevatar’s knives had left him.
‘Sev,’ one of his men said. ‘Your nose is bleeding.’
He lifted a hand, feeling the trickle of hot blood against his fingers. ‘So it is.’
‘Are you all right?’
No. The secret I’ve kept for a century has just burst open, all because I couldn’t resist a joyride in our father’s psyche.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Never better.’
‘Your ear is bleeding, too.’
‘It won’t kill me. I think it may be time to escape soon,’ he added.
‘How do you plan to do that?’ asked Valzen.
Sevatar looked at him for a moment, unsure if the question was sincere. Valzen looked blank, though whether it was because of his facial reconstruction stealing any expression, or simply a deadpan joke that Sevatar was missing, the captain couldn’t say for certain.
‘Is that a real question?’ Sevatar asked at last.
‘Of course it is. How do we get out of here?’
‘The same way we do everything, brother. By killing whoever tries to stop us.’
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
JOHN FRENCH
John French is a writer and freelance games designer from Nottingham. His work can be seen in the Dark Heresy, Rogue Trader and Deathwatch roleplay games and scattered through a number of other books including the award nominated Disciples of the Dark Gods. When he is not thinking of ways that dark and corrupting beings can destroy reality and space, John enjoys talking about why it would be a good idea, and making it so with his own Traitor Legions on the gaming table… that and drinking good wine.
GRAHAM MCNEILL
Hailing from Scotland, Graham McNeill worked for over six years as a Games Developer in Games Workshop’s Design Studio before taking the plunge to become a full-time writer. Graham’s written a host of SF and Fantasy novels and comics, as well as a number of side projects that keep him busy and (mostly) out of trouble. His Horus Heresy novel, A Thousand Sons, was a New York Times bestseller and his Time of Legends novel, Empire, won the 2010 David Gemmell Legend Award. Graham lives and works in Nottingham.
DAN ABNETT
Dan Abnett has written over forty novels, including the acclaimed Gaunt’s Ghosts series, and the Eisenhorn and Ravenor trilogies. His most recent Horus Heresy novels, Prospero Burns and Know No Fear, were New York Times bestsellers. In addition to writing for Black Library, Dan scripts audio dramas, movies, games, and comics for major publishers in Britain and America. He is also the author of other bestselling novels, including Torchwood: Border Princes, Doctor Who: The Silent Stars Go By, Triumff: Her Majesty’s Hero, and Embedded. He lives and works in Maidstone, Kent.
GAV THORPE
Gav Thorpe has been rampaging across the worlds of Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 for many years as both an author and games developer. He hails from the den of scurvy outlaws called Nottingham and makes regular sorties to unleash bloodshed and mayhem. He shares his hideout with Dennis, a mechanical hamster sworn to enslave mankind. Dennis is currently trying to develop an iPhone app that will hypnotise his victims. Gav’s previous novels include fan-favourite Angels of Darkness, the Time of Legends trilogy, The Sundering, and the Eldar Path series amongst many others.
AARON DEMBSKI-BOWDEN
Aaron Dembski-Bowden is a British author with his beginnings in the videogame and RPG industries. He’s written several novels for Black Library, including the Night Lords series, the Space Marine Battles book Helsreach and the New York Times bestselling The First Heretic for the Horus Heresy. He lives and works in Northern Ireland with his wife Katie, hiding from the world in the middle of nowhere. His hobbies generally revolve around reading anything within reach, and helping people spell his surname.
An extract from Angel Exterminatus by Graham McNeill
On sale November 2012
‘Come at me and die, traitors!’ the Imperial Fist yelled, his face a mask of blood from where Kroeger’s shot had torn a finger-deep furrow in his skull. Kroeger shook his head and shot him twice in t
he chest. Beside him, Ushtor collapsed, his armour blown outwards by the force of shell detonations. Kroeger ignored the dying warrior’s grunts of pain and loped towards the Imperial Fist who’d killed him.
Another warrior without a helm. Did Dorn’s weakling sons want their heads blown off?
The Fist backed away, ejecting his bolter’s magazine and slamming home a fresh clip.
‘Nowhere to run, little man,’ said Kroeger.
‘I’m not running,’ answered the Imperial Fist. ‘I’m waiting.’
Despite himself, Kroeger’s curiosity was aroused. ‘Waiting for what?’
‘For them,’ said the Fist.
Hammering impacts spun Kroger around, and he felt the pain of lacerating tears and holes punched in his side. He dropped to one knee, seeing at least two dozen Imperial Fists charging towards him. They fired from the hip, but suffered no loss in accuracy. Two more shells struck him before he could scramble to cover; one in the shoulder, one in the centre of his chest. Warning icons flashed to life on his visor, and he coughed a wad of blood through the vox-grille of his barbican helmet.
Kroeger fought to get off a last volley, but his arm hung uselessly at his side and his bolter lay in pieces before him. He hadn’t even realised he’d lost the weapon. He looked over the edge of the wall, seeing only a handful of Iron Warriors clambering towards the rampart. Hundreds of mortal soldiers opposed them with explosives and massed fire. There would be no help from that quarter for now.
How demeaning to be kept out of a fortress by such dross.
Kroeger stared down at the dark blood pooling in front of him, its bright gleam and iron tang curiously pleasant even as it leaked from his numerous wounds.
A cold shadow fell across the bloodied ramparts, and a roaring blast of jet-hot air blasted downwards from screaming retros. Kroeger’s spilled blood boiled in the heat and mortals screamed as their uniforms erupted in flames. The Imperial Fist with whom he’d traded words fell as the ammunition in his bolter exploded and transformed his wrists into charred stumps of flesh and nubs of fused bone.
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