by Andy Smillie
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Warhammer 40,000
The Trial of Gabriel Seth, Act I
Know Thyself
Blood in the Machine
From the Blood
The Trial of Gabriel Seth, Act II
Beneath the Flesh
Torturer’s Thirst
Death’s Shepherd
Immortalis
The Quickening
The Trial of Gabriel Seth, Act III
Astorath the Grim: Redeemer of the Lost
Gabriel Seth: The Flesh Tearer
The Trial of Gabriel Seth, Act IV
About the Author
Legal
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.
the trial of gabriel seth,
act i
Gabriel Seth prepared himself for death, and stepped forwards.
The Chapter Master of the Flesh Tearers entered the Forum Judicium and took his place at its centre. Shrouded in the depths of Baal, the chamber had remained unchanged from the day it had been carved into the rock. A vast elliptical space, it was reminiscent of the grand amphitheatres of ancient Terra. Towering rows of superimposed arcades formed the bulk of the structure, with each of the arches supported by a pair of Ionic columns. Angled buttresses carved in the likeness of Sanguinius provided further support and served as a reminder that it was his strength, his blood, upon which all undertakings were built. Higher up, held suspended in the space below the ceiling, a golden statue of the Emperor gazed down in silent observation.
‘I have not come here for your judgement.’
Standing beneath each of the arches was a Chapter Master. Each was a son of Sanguinius charged with commanding a Chapter of the Blood. A sea of red armour cast in every shade and hue, some rich like fresh-spilled blood, others ruby or swept through with crimson. Still others were clad in darkened scabs, the colour of scorched blood or the black of the curse. Seth cast his gaze over the assembled Chapter Masters, and found no friends among them. Their jaws were set like iron and their eyes carried the threat of violence. Seth felt a grin tug at the corners of his mouth, amused by the challenge inherent in their damning stares. ‘I am not here for your help.’ He spat the word, his eyes narrowing to slits. Whether any of them would act as a brother and not as a juror remained to be seen.
It was a rare and dangerous occurrence for so many Chapter Masters to gather in one location. Yet duty and blood demanded the risk be taken. The Judicium was no simple court. It existed only to arbitrate in the direst of circumstances. In such times the scions of Sanguinius were called upon to lend their voice to the shape of history, to stand and make a choice. More than once Seth had stood with the others, passing sentence on the future. A surge of guilt quickened his heart as he remembered the consequences of such occasions. Some decrees, some judgements when passed, were like the pulling of a trigger. They could not be undone.
‘I have come here in sacrifice alone.’ Seth upturned his eviscerator and planted it in the red rock of the ground. The weapon’s ragged teeth were caked in gore.
A ripple of disapproving murmurs echoed around the chamber.
Like his blade, death clung to Seth like a badge of honour. His armour was rent and scarred from recent conflict. His cloak was torn and stained by foul ichor. A fresh scar sat atop his brow. Another bisected his left eye. ‘You may damn me. You may swallow up my name in secrecy and remove my deeds from the histories of the Imperium. But–’ He ground his teeth, struggling to force his words through a knot of anger. ‘You will spare my Chapter.’
‘You are in no position to make demands, Gabriel.’ Dante was the first to answer. There was impatience in his tone but it carried neither threat nor aggression.
Seth glared up at the lord of the Blood Angels. There were none who had embraced Sanguinius’s angelic legacy as fully as Dante. Resplendent in his golden armour, its ornate plates polished to a mirror sheen, he stood as a beacon of hope. A noble protector who would rise above the curse. Yet for all his skill as an orator, Seth knew it to be a facade. Of all the Chapter Masters, Dante alone was helmed. A gilded death mask obscured his face, at once cruel and beautiful.
Seth released the breath he had been holding, easing the tension from his muscles. He both admired and pitied Dante. To be forced to hide his own rage behind such a mask would have driven Seth mad. That Dante endured it had always been reason enough for Seth to accept the Blood Angel as first among equals.
‘Dante is right.’ Castellan Zargo’s words were barbed with menace. ‘You will account for your deeds.’ The master of the Angels Encarmine thrust a finger at Seth.
‘I will,’ Seth barked, crashing a fist against his chest, his teeth bared. ‘My deeds. I will account for those. And with me it will end.’ His face twisted into a snarl, his lips struggling against the tightness in his jaw. ‘The Flesh Tearers will continue to fight in the name of the Emperor and of Sanguinius. You will do nothing to reprimand them nor bring stain to their honour.’ Seth took a step forward. ‘If you threaten my brothers–’ He advanced another pace, fixing Dante with a murderous stare. ‘If you spill a single drop of their blood in vengeance–’ He paused, wrestling his temper under control. What he had to say would not be dismissed as the idle threat of a madman. ‘I will kill every last one of you before my head leaves my shoulders. I will tear out your eyes and drink your blood dry. Know this. Know it to be true.’
‘You would threaten us?’ Zargo snarled.
‘Hypocrisy suits you ill, cousin.’ Seth’s quiet rage built in his throat.
‘How dare you–’
‘How dare I?’ Seth cut Zargo off, a murderous glint returning to his eyes. ‘You have summoned me here in threat of my life. All of you. My brothers. Did you think I would lie down and plead?’
‘And what of you, brother?’ The voice of Geron, the master of the Angels Numinous, was full of scorn. ‘What boon have you given us? Your actions have forced the attention of the Inquisition upon all of us. They claw at our door like hungry wolves.’
‘Agreed. You have damned us all with your actions.’ Orloc, lord of the Blood Drinkers, spoke up in support.
‘Arrogance and bloodlust are your on
ly gifts to this brotherhood,’ said Geron.
‘There is one other gift I have for you,’ Seth snarled. ‘Come down here and claim it.’
‘Enough.’ Dante slammed his hand down on the balustrade, the ancient rock cracking under his gauntlet. ‘You have said your piece, Seth. Now you will listen to what we have to say.’
Dante gestured to Techial. The Chapter Master of the Disciples of Blood approached an ornate lectern that sat just above the amphitheatre’s floor. Techial had been appointed Chronicler. It fell to him to recount Seth’s sins, to detail the actions that had brought the Flesh Tearer to such a juncture.
Techial settled behind the lectern and unfurled a length of parchment. ‘Gabriel Seth, you stand before us a broken son, an orphaned brother. Here the lines of blood and loyalty do not flow,’ he read aloud, his voice filling the chamber with a sombre tempo. ‘Here, you will be judged.’
know thyself
The Victus stretched out below Balthiel like an armoured continent. The Flesh Tearers flagship was a colossal vessel. Teeming with weaponry, it was possessed of a near-impenetrable hull, wrapped in kilometres-thick slabs of ceramite armour. By the Victus’s guns had the populace of a thousand worlds died, its lance batteries boiling away their atmospheres as its seismic torpedoes shattered their tectonic plates.
The Librarian stood in the observation tower, his attention fixed on the lone ship edging its way towards the portside docking bay. Its approach heralded more menace than the largest enemy battle group, promising a threat that no salvo could halt. The dagger-shaped craft was smaller even than a single barrel of one of the Victus’s close protection batteries, its void-black hull free of markings and insignia, a ghost ship – invisible save for the glowing, stylised ‘I’ that emblazoned its prow.
Harahel stood immobile in the launch bay, relishing the unusual quiet. The dozens of servitors and gangs of engineering serfs that worked the deck were absent. Plasma saws and arc welders lay discarded on workbenches. Two Thunderhawk gunships stood untended, awaiting refit and repair. Overhead, a squadron of Stormravens nestled in transport cradles, fuel hoses hanging like limp vines from engines in need of proper ministration. The silence was oppressive, punctuated by the whisper of the chamber’s air filters and the gentle hum of Harahel’s armour. To his left, Appollus’s power fist crackled as he tested its charge.
‘Seth should never have allowed this.’ Appollus seethed with displeasure, his mood as black as his armour.
Behind the angular grille of his battle-helm, Harahel grinned. As Company Champion it was his duty, if not his honour, to meet the arrivals. Appollus, on the other hand, was there as punishment. The Chaplain had pressed his point too hard, and it was unwise to tell the Chapter Master he was wrong. Seth would have Appollus remember his place. ‘What would you have him do?’ asked Harahel, his gaze fixed on the docking tunnel. His eyes followed the black craft as it drifted through the entry doors. ‘Defy the Inquisition?’
Appollus didn’t answer. As he watched the toothed slabs of the entry hatch slide closed behind the Inquisitorial shuttle; his jaw was set as stone.
The arrowed craft touched down in total silence. The technology powering its engines was derived from a xenos discovery, its capabilities far in advance of the thrusters that powered the Thunderhawk gunship in whose shadow the shuttle rested. A ramp emerged from the near side of the ship, widening from a sliver of metal to a slender plank that extended to the deck.
Appollus growled, ‘That vessel is no warship. They’ve sent a politician to judge warriors.’
With a faint hiss of pressure, a section of the hull slid away, revealing a doorway. A lone figure alighted onto the ramp, its heavy footsteps resonating around the chamber. A gilded heavy bolter replaced its right arm and shoulder, its barrel inscribed with intricate High Gothic. Its eyes were elongated brass optics that protruded from a diamond-encrusted face. A blue targeting matrix passed over Harahel’s armour as the gun-servitor scanned the deck. ‘Perhaps not,’ he said, touching the pommel of his eviscerator.
‘Clear,’ the servitor intoned, its soft cadence at odds with its mechanical exterior.
The air around the gun-servitor shimmered, and Harahel’s helmet cycled vision modes as its codifiers struggled to maintain focus. A fulgurant web of energy crackled in the air. The distortion cleared a moment later, and the rest of the craft’s occupants resolved into view at the base of the ramp.
Harahel bit down a snarl, his body willing him to attack.
+Calm yourself+
Balthiel’s voice pushed into Harahel’s mind. He ground his teeth, irritated by the Librarian’s intrusion.
+It’s a distortion field. He is not a psyker. Proceed+
Harahel massaged his temple as Balthiel’s voice faded.
‘The Librarian?’ Appollus asked.
‘Yes. I’ll be seeing our brother in the duelling cages.’
A persistent icon flashed on Appollus’s tactical display.
‘Pity,’ he said, and blinked the rune for stone to Manakel, ordering the Dreadnought to stand down.
Seth had been clear with the Inquisition – no psyker would be permitted to set foot upon his vessel. Manakel stood within the nearest of the docked Thunderhawks, ready to enforce the Chapter Master’s edict. Another time old friend. Appollus removed his helmet, cupped it under his arm and spat on the deck. The acid saliva bubbled on the metal with a hiss.
‘Let’s get this over with.’
Harahel echoed the Chaplain, mag-locking his helm to his waist, and approached the Inquisitorial warband.
Seven figures stood in loose formation on the deck, an inquisitor at their head. He wore golden power armour that shone as though fixed under a bank of luminators. The symbol of his office bisected his breastplate, its onyx finish mirroring the man’s dark eyes. Four warriors in artificer plate-mail flanked him. Each carried an oversized blade and storm shield. A slender woman in a crimson bodyglove, her fingers adorned with jewels, stood behind them. Her narrow eyes flitted between the Flesh Tearers and the final member of the party, a hunched savant whose crooked fingers dug through the folds of his robes for a data scroll.
‘I am Inquisitor Corvin Herrold of the Ordo Hereticus.’ The inquisitor stepped forward to meet them, folding his arms over his breast in the sign of the aquila.
‘Harahel, First Company Champion.’ Harahel clasped his fist to his breastplate in salute.
Corvin nodded and looked at Appollus next. The Chaplain said nothing, disdain etched on his face. His cold eyes studied the inquisitor. Corvin’s jaw tensed. Appollus heard the quickening thrum of the shield-warriors’ heartbeats, as their bodies prepared for combat. Appollus’s honed instincts could easily detect the subtle shift in posture that belied their intent. The Chaplain remained silent.
Harahel broke the stalemate. ‘Our lord awaits you.’
‘Of course.’ Corvin’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Shall we?’ The inquisitor motioned his henchmen forwards.
‘Just you,’ Harahel barred the way with his massive bulk. ‘Your warriors stay here.’
‘Respectfully…’ Corvin gestured to the savant, whose brass eye whirred as he looked up from the data scroll. ‘I must bring my chronicler to record every detail of this engagement.’
Appollus stiffened at the inquisitor’s choice of words. If the inquisitor was there to engage the Flesh Tearers, then he had brought woefully inadequate forces.
‘No.’ Harahel didn’t move. ‘My lord will not forget a single detail of your meeting. Our scriptographers can transcribe it before you leave.’
Corvin only came up to Harahel’s breastplate. He had never been so close to a Space Marine before. ‘Very well,’ he said, nodding to his bodyguard to stand down and falling into lockstep with the giant Flesh Tearer.
Appollus lingered behind as Harahel left with Corvin. He eyed the savant scrawling on a data-slate. The neuro-quill trembled. The savant let out an involuntary whimper and tried to creep further into his robes.
The Chaplain glowered. He would credit the serf who cleaned his armour with more backbone than that hunched wretch. Turning on his heel, he followed the inquisitor from the deck.
The Reclusiam was as much museum as place of worship. Venerable relics from the Chapter’s past decorated the curved walls, their sanctity maintained by stasis fields which were themselves artefacts from a forgotten age. The mosaic floor was crafted from the armour of fallen captains, the story of their demise ever present in the irregular tiling. Reclaimed honour-blades stood up like vicious candles in a moat of volcanic sand that bordered the pulpit. Seth knelt in the Reclusiam’s centre, naked save for an ashen tunic that draped his broad frame.
To Balthiel, his Chapter Master looked to be chiselled from the same immutable stone as the statues that stared down in judgement. Even fully clad in his battle garb, the Librarian knew he stood at no advantage over the hulking Flesh Tearer.
‘My lord,’ said Balthiel, dropping to one knee.
Seth remained still, his gaze fixed above. The dual visages of Sanguinius and the Emperor stared down at him, their likenesses engraved on the greyed armourglass of the ceiling that worked to diffuse the light from the single luminator. ‘He has arrived.’
‘Yes, lord. Harahel waits with him in your war-room.’
Seth didn’t reply. The Chapter Master of the Flesh Tearers was unusually contemplative. Even without his gifts, Balthiel could have discerned his lord’s feelings of contempt towards their guest. Seth was a direct, brutal warrior that few could match. But the Inquisition was an insidious agency. It could not be stopped by blade or by anger. Its operatives could not be met head-on. Defeating them required patience and cunning – two concepts as alien to Seth as the charges that the inquisitor was no doubt there to level against him and his Chapter.
‘The Blood guide you,’ Balthiel rose and walked from the chamber, leaving Seth alone with his fathers.
Seth met the eyes of the Emperor. ‘Give me counsel.’ He paused, losing himself in the threads that cut across his progenitor’s armour. Imperfections served as a reminder that no defence was impervious.