Redeemer - Guy Haley

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Fear not, brothers,’ Astorath said to them. ‘Your brother died as all Blood Angels should, in communion with the Great Angel, Sanguinius.’

  ‘High Chaplain,’ said Fidelius. ‘May I have permission to ask your guidance?’

  ‘You may.’

  ‘Will this happen to us?’

  Astorath answered thoughtfully. ‘Your creator, Belisarius Cawl, has many qualities, but he is a braggart and wears hubris like a gown. It is impossible to eliminate Sanguinius’ suffering from our souls. But it may be that you are immune from its effects.’

  ‘Then, if we shall never see what the Angel saw, can we truly call ourselves Blood Angels?’ asked Edmun.

  ‘You are Primaris Marines, but you are Blood Angels first. The blood of Sanguinius flows in your veins as it does in mine. You may never suffer the way that Erasmus did, but rest assured, you are my brothers,’ said Astorath.

  He made sure to meet the eyes of each of them, and as he did he heard a few distant notes of pain – a foretaste, perhaps, of what might come to pass.

  Artemos joined them. ‘It is done. Erasmus’ gene-seed is secure. We will return his armour to the Chapter.’

  ‘Then we are finished here,’ said Astorath. He looked to the sky, and opened his vox-link ‘Sergeant Dolomen, we are returning. Prepare the Stormraven for flight. Please inform the Eminence Sanguis, we depart immediately. More duty awaits us.’

  Somewhere in the immensity of space, a new tune had begun to play.

  About the Author

  Guy Haley is the author of the Horus Heresy novels Titandeath, Wolfsbane and Pharos, the Primarchs novels Corax: Lord of Shadows, Perturabo: The Hammer of Olympia, and the Warhammer 40,000 novels Dark Imperium, Dark Imperium: Plague War, The Devastation of Baal, Dante, Baneblade, Shadowsword, Valedor and Death of Integrity. He has also written Throneworld and The Beheading for The Beast Arises series. His enthusiasm for all things greenskin has also led him to pen the eponymous Warhammer novel Skarsnik, as well as the End Times novel The Rise of the Horned Rat. He has also written stories set in the Age of Sigmar, included in War Storm, Ghal Maraz and Call of Archaon. He lives in Yorkshire with his wife and son.

  An extract from Dante.

  A new life was beginning. Night was falling, and a boy and his father watched the skies.

  The giant red orb of the sun passed behind the disc of Baal. Firstnight came to Baal Secundus with eclipse, Baal’s shadow creeping over the Great Salt Waste of its second moon. Heat radiated rapidly through the thin atmosphere. The temperature dropped fast and the night wind blew hard, chilling the man and his son. The sand roamer behind them rocked in the breeze. The rusty springs of its suspension squealed in sympathy with the pained birth-cries coming from within.

  The boy glanced back at the roamer. A rough ovoid of crude plates lifted high over the ground on six wheels, it was his home and refuge from the moon-world’s killing landscapes. The open door cast a rhomboid of yellow light across the waste, softening the fractal harshness of the salt pan’s surface. As if provoked by his gaze, the door banged shut, cutting off the warm light. The metal muffled the cries only a little.

  The boy’s father looked back also, then wrapped his arm tighter around his son, pulling him close.

  ‘She will be fine,’ said the man. ‘Your mother is strong. Your brother will be here soon.’ The boy was old enough to guess the words were intended to reassure his father, not he.

  His father’s body was ravaged by residual fallout from a war, twelve thousand years lost. Deep lines marked his cheeks. His lips were scabbed with plates of skin. Amid the stubble of his cheek, a trio of ulcers glistened, blood-red flowers blooming in a poison field. A thick mane of brown hair, shot with premature grey and coarsened by salt, framed his face. There were black gaps in his yellow smile. At a little over thirty standard years the man was old and regarded himself well past his prime. His goggles, a priceless family heirloom of age-yellowed, scratched plastek, rested on his forehead, exposing an area of paler skin around his eyes less damaged than the rest. For all the cruelties of the land and the hard life it had given him, in his perfect, amber eyes there dwelt humour and a tender love for his child. Privation was all he had ever known. His humanity had not suffered for it.

  ‘Come away from the roamer, Luis,’ the man said softly. His chapped hands adjusted the scarf around the boy’s face, bringing it into a sharp triangle on the bridge of his nose. He smiled and touched his knuckle to his son’s forehead. Long, dark robes swathed them head to foot. Although the sun killed slowly out there in the Great Salt Waste, the nearest mortis radzone was far away. They were blessedly free of the need to wear their rad suits.

  ‘But da, mama–’

  ‘Hush,’ said the man, and he gripped his boy to him more tightly. ‘Let the life-bringer do what she does. Your mother is safe in her hands, you’ll see.’

  A long, agonised moan came from the roamer to belie his words. The vehicle rocked hard, a sudden violence that subsided into ominous stillness. The wind soughed through the struts of the vehicle, setting the charms around the cab rattling. The boy’s father had made them. There were strings of scrimshawed bones and chimes of wind-scoured glass of blue and turquoise, plucked from the buried ruins of forgotten lands. But the boy’s favourites were two angels of metal scrap leaning forwards on the engine casing, frozen in the act of taking flight. From their outstretched arms, wings of blood-red ribbon snapped. In the growing dark they ceased to be familiar, becoming unnerving harbingers of terrible news – the very angels of death. The boy’s fears for his mother grew.

  ‘It will be fine, you’ll see,’ repeated his father. ‘Come on, let’s walk a little way.’

  The boy was seven or thereabouts. Like his father, he had little idea of his true age. The seasons of a moon-world are complex and not easy to reconcile with the rhythms of Terra, a place far distant from their thoughts in any case. The home of the undying God-Emperor, Terra was to them a mythical world beyond conception. Nevertheless, their bodies remembered. Their unthinking genes had yet to throw off the stamp of their birthplace. Man was not made to survive on the Baalite trio. A genetic code forged over millions of years had had scant thousands to adapt to this hellish place, and frantically drove the creatures it made to reproduce before it was terminally compromised. Already the harsh environment had set its claws into the boy, eroding his features almost quicker than they could form. Life was short for the Baalites. They instinctively felt that it was not meant to be so and sorrowed, though they did not know why.

  Their mortal shells yearned for the ease of a world that had ceased to exist millennia since. Old Earth was gone, and Terra as dry and dead as Baal Secundus. In those terrible times there were only deserts for men to inhabit. Deserts that had been made from paradises.

  ‘Come away a little further,’ said the man, when they had gone a way from the camp. ‘We’ll see them soon, up there, on Baal.’

  ‘But we are not supposed to,’ said the boy. He cast another glance backwards. His father gently but firmly pushed him on. Beyond their sand roamer were a score of similar vehicles. Some were bigger and some were smaller than their family home, but none greatly so, and they all followed the same basic pattern save the hulking salt hauler, in which no man lived. The orange light of fire scorpion lamps burned in the roamers’ portholes and through cracks in their worn sides. They were the sole, lonely signs of life. Sometimes Luis felt his clan were the only people anywhere.

  ‘I know you are not supposed to go too far, and you are wise to remind me,’ said the man. ‘But you are with me, and so you shall be safe.’ The man squeezed the boy’s shoulders. He took the boy further out from the camp. Plates of salt cracked under their feet. In every direction flat salt pan stretched away, a desiccated infinity as fractured as the skin of the man. During the day the sun streamed through clear skies stripped of protective ozone in the Long Ago Wars, as mercile
ss to the land as it was to the flesh. At night the temperature plunged, and then the salt sucked greedily at the atmosphere’s meagre moisture load. Complex hydrates formed in the wastes, as precious to the salt clans as the chemicals they scraped from the ground. The latter gave them wealth, the former water. Hard as it would be for an off-worlder to believe, theirs was a rich clan.

  The cries had faded with distance, and so the man stopped his son with gentle hands. ‘Here will do,’ he said. He sat down with a satisfied sigh. Rest was a luxury he rarely enjoyed. ‘Will you sit with me?’ he said. The wind gusted harder, cooler with every second. It peppered the boy and his father with salty grit.

  Luis looked out over the desert. Visibility was good. The giant red crescent of Baal proper poured sanguine light over their world. ‘We can see for miles,’ he said. ‘Nothing approaches.’ He looked up and searched the sky. The painful blue of the day was ceding the bowl of heaven to night. The sky was red, the stars were red. The broad slash of the Red Scar bled its ruddy light across the cosmos. ‘No blood eagles fly. Fire scorpions are rare in the salt wastes.’ He stamped. ‘This ground is too salty to support trap-clams and too hard for catch spiders.’ He looked at his father. ‘I judge it safe. I will sit with you.’

  The father blinked away grit from his eye, but did not put on his goggles. He grinned in delight at his son’s answer. ‘Soon you’ll know more than I.’

  ‘I already do,’ said the boy confidently. The man laughed, openly, the kind of laughter than invites participation, but the boy did not join in. His appraisal of the deadly lands around had been a momentary distraction. Worry for his mother returned. Luis sat down and nestled into his father.

  White streamers of salt snaked across the ground. Their hissing could not quite drown out the cries coming from their roamer. He watched it nervously. For all the pressure the world exerted on its inhabitants to mature quickly, he was still a boy. He needed his mother.

  His father laughed. ‘I will decide when you know more than I.’ Following his son’s eyes to their roamer, the man took his son’s hand and pulled his attention away, directing it out to the horizon and the planet looming over it. ‘Tonight is a good night, an auspicious night.’ He folded his arms around the boy, feeling him shiver in the dropping temperature. They leaned into each other, seeking warmth.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Watch!’ said the man. He pointed to the brother planet, bringing his arm in line with his son’s eyes. The shadow of Baal’s own night crawled over the surface. It too was a world of deserts, red and vast, an all-encompassing landscape stretching from pole to pole. Mottled dun patches marked out mountains, blacker areas were depressions, modest spreads of frozen carbon and water capped the points of its axis, but no matter their hue all were various shades of red.

  ‘The first wonder of tonight,’ said the man. The dayside of Baal gave no hint that men lived there, but as night made its solemn procession across the surface, a single light blazed out from near the equator.

  The boy had seen it on several occasions before, when the relative positions of Baal and Baal Secundus were favourable. His heart leapt every time.

  ‘The Arx Angelicum! Fortress of Angels!’ the boy said.

  ‘The very same,’ said his father. ‘The great castle where the angels of light and blood live, those who bring the Emperor’s judgement to all corners of the galaxy. Think, Luis, they are of Baal!’ he said proudly. ‘Why, there are even men there who might have come from our own tribe, once.’

  ‘Would they know us?’

  ‘No!’ said the man with a smile. ‘They have become mighty, risen past the concerns of mortal folk. They were chosen to become the sons of the God-Emperor, given great power and glory. They are the most wrathful of the Emperor’s servants – the noblest, the purest, the best.’ He whispered the truths of it into the boy’s ear, his words displacing the cries from the roamer and the sinister hissing of the wind-blown salt. ‘They are the lordliest of lords. The Emperor protects, the priests tell us in Selltown and Kemrender, but they,’ he pointed again emphatically, ‘they are how He protects us and billions and billions more like us, all over the galaxy. But they would not know us, not as kin. They are given great lifespans, and the concerns of our lives are beneath them now.’

  The boy looked up. Blood-red stars looked back.

  ‘Are there really people there?’

  ‘There are people everywhere!’ said his father. ‘On worlds around every star, worlds of every kind.’

  ‘I have seen the fortress before,’ said the boy, his wonder departing as quickly as it had come. Fear for his mother constricted his young heart.

  ‘Have you seen this?’ said his father knowingly. He directed his son’s gaze to the farthest side of Baal, where night was deeply entrenched. Bright points moved across the world, some so close to one another they merged. Smaller lights twinkled as they ascended from the fortress on Baal.

  ‘Stars,’ said the boy. ‘That is all.’

  ‘Not so,’ said the man. ‘Stars cannot be so close to a world. Those are the great starships of the Blood Angels themselves.’

  ‘Are they bigger than our roamer?’ asked the boy.

  The man laughed at his innocence. ‘I would think so, my son. In those great void chariots the lords of Baal ride to war. You see a very special thing. Rogus saw them gathering last night. I thought you might like to see. Now, some will say the angels fly to war on wings of shining light, but I know that is not true. They fly in machines that vent fire, roaring louder than the thunder. Who can stand against such warriors?’

  ‘No one,’ said the boy, entranced again. ‘There really are people out there, in the black?’

  ‘Yes!’ said the man.

  ‘I would like to go there one day.’ He turned around in his father’s arms. ‘Maybe I will one day. I could go to the brother planet and join the angels of blood. Would that not be a fine thing?’

  The earnestness shining in the boy’s face unnerved the man. Encouraging such an ambition had not been his intention. His scabbed brow lowered over his perfect eyes.

  ‘More die in the attempt than get to join the angels,’ he said. ‘Only a very few make their way to the Place of Challenge at Angel’s Fall, fewer still survive the challenges, fewer yet are chosen.’ Reflexively, he hugged harder. Already he feared to lose his wife that night; the thought of losing his son as well terrified him. ‘Better a life of hardship you know than the almost certain chance of doom. It is best to venerate the angels from afar.’

  ‘Many people fail?’ said the boy, refusing to be discouraged.

  ‘Nearly all the people fail. Only the most exceptional survive to be chosen, and special as you are, chance will doom you before you have the opportunity to prove yourself.’

  Luis was silent a moment. He craned his neck around to look at the lights over Baal. ‘Nearly all, but not all. Someone has to become an angel.’

  Click here to buy Dante.

  A Black Library Publication

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

  Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

  Cover illustration by Adrian Smith.

  Redeemer © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2019. Redeemer, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.

  All Rights Reserved.

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  ISBN: 978-1-78999-409-4

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this
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