Lords and Tyrants

by Warhammer 40K

  The Ynnari!

  A Raider transport swept into view even as the Black Legion warriors burst onto the near bank. It gleamed with a white aura, emanating from the figure who stood upon the serrated prow. She was garbed in finery, like a lady of the old dominions captured in stasis, her gown and cloaks streaming in the wind of the skimmer’s passage. The cold light left motes of frost on the air, a sparkling wake like glittering dew on a fresh morning.

  Aradryan knew her instantly.

  Yvraine, Emissary of Ynnead, Bride of the God-Dead.

  He had heard many tales of the Ynnari figurehead, more than a few sinister whispers between followers of the Path of Grieving. The craftworlds and their reliance on spirit technology had always skirted on the edges of necromancy, but it was claimed that Yvraine could conjure the spirit from a waystone and leech the power of the departing.

  Yet Aradryan did not feel coldness as he watched the majestic Daughter of Shades. Hope bristled in him, sharp and unfamiliar. Though she seemed cast from unfeeling ceramic the sensation that washed from her passing was uplifting.

  A crimson-armoured figure stood just behind her, a shimmering blade bare in his hand. The Visarch, Sword of Ynnead, as deadly a warrior as any from the legends of old. As the Raider swept over the support battery, the Visarch leapt from the speeding transport, plunging into the midst of the Chaos Space Marines charging across the bridge. More heavily armoured aeldari followed – former incubi of Commorragh, the infamous Coiled Blade that served the Queen of the Reborn. Powered blades flashing, they slashed into the traitorous Space Marines while Yvraine led the counter-attack across to the other side of the river.

  Scattering clouds of dust from their anti-grav downdraught, two more Raiders sped past. He saw the heavy weapons fire of a Falcon and two Ravagers converge on the bridge, raking across advancing squads. As missiles spat forth from the Space Marines, the swift-moving grav-tanks curved away over the river to target the heavy vehicles and Dreadnoughts approaching on the far side.

  A Wave Serpent settled beyond the ruin of the vibro-cannon, its back ramp lowering as it drifted to a halt. The eldar who descended was garbed in elaborate, stark blue armour, the sigil on his white helm a variation of the Dire Avengers rune.

  ‘Time to leave, Alaitocii!’ the Aspect Warrior called out. ‘Fate has favoured you this time.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Aradryan started towards the other eldar and then stopped. His gaze fell upon the mangled remains of Diamedin and he almost lost his footing. The flicker of Diamedin’s infused spirit stone drew his eye. ‘Wait!’

  ‘Hurry now or we will leave you,’ called the Ynnari Dire Avenger.

  Aradryan plucked the sparkling soulgem from its mounting. He sprinted over to the transport, which lifted up even as he jumped for the ramp. He slipped inside as the access-way closed behind him.

  Eight Dire Avengers waited in the Wave Serpent, their bright armour gleaming in the lights of the transport compartment. Aradryan felt the Wave Serpent accelerate, banking to the left, back towards the main host.

  ‘What has happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Yvraine learned of what Alaitoc ventured here on our behalf,’ replied the Dire Avenger who had ushered him aboard. ‘We came to help.’

  Aradryan nodded, not quite sure what to think of this. Sat among these blooded warriors he should have felt alone as he had when Diamedin had assumed her war mask, but instead their presence suffused him with a sense of belonging.

  ‘You hear it, don’t you?’ said the Dire Avenger. ‘The voice of Ynnead.’

  ‘We call it the Whisper,’ said another.

  ‘I… I hear it,’ admitted Aradryan. ‘It is growing stronger.’

  ‘Fuelled by the departed souls,’ another of the squad told him. ‘In their deaths, Ynnead draws strength, as do we all.’

  The thought should have been horrific. Aradryan had never been comfortable with the thought of eternities spent in the infinity circuit. Bodiless but vaguely aware. As prone to the vicissitudes of fate as any mortal. But he felt peace.

  He listened to the Whisper, a wordless but understandable swell of power.

  ‘You have an aeldari soul,’ said his new companion. ‘In the time of the dominion, before the Fall, all our people were reborn into new bodies. When She Who Thirsts swallowed our people our spirits were forfeit. Now Ynnead fights for them, and in time the aeldari will emerge from Her awful shadow.’

  ‘But if I understand your creed, we must all die to live again?’

  The Dire Avenger nodded. ‘In time, we all die. Ynnead gives us the chance to return. We are the Reborn. Better to die in hope than dread, yes?’

  Aradryan stood a little apart from the other rescued Guardians, feeling confused.

  Like many who had been swept up by the arrival of the Ynnari, he had been deposited close to the fighting, though he had not participated any further. Now, with the battle won, he was at a loss. Many around him were weeping for the slain, while healers tended to those who could benefit from their ministrations.

  Alausha, one of the Guardian leaders, addressed them.

  ‘The fighting is almost over. The Black Legionnaires are being pushed back to their landing craft. Our swiftest warriors hunt down those yet to depart. The Black Legion’s attempt to seize this world has been thwarted.’

  Aradryan heard the words but they carried little meaning. He did not share any sense of victory. There was only one certainty. He would live, when he had come so close to death.

  He usually felt grief for the lost; that was his role as Mourner. This time he looked upon the white-shrouded dead and felt... angry. Not at those who had slain them, for they had already been punished. His anger was at the waste. What now for the departed? Their spirits would mingle with the infinity circuit, just motes of energy to power the craftworld. Was that salvation or simply delaying the inevitable?

  Someone approached from behind, and he turned. The new arrival was a seer, clad in robes of purple, blue and yellow, her face hidden inside a gem-crusted ghosthelm. A dozen runes circled the farseer, playing intertwining orbits about her head and outstretched hand.

  ‘Your powers continue to grow, Thirianna,’ he said, smiling at his old friend. Her expression was hidden but warmth flowed in return.

  ‘You stand upon the blade of a choice, Aradryan,’ she told him. ‘Though both options lead to death.’

  ‘Have you been skein-stalking me again?’ he asked with a quiet laugh.

  ‘I still take an interest in your affairs,’ she admitted, her tone serious. ‘As when you left to become an Outcast, there is great uncertainty in your future.’

  ‘No, you are wrong. There is only certainty for us all.’ Aradryan lifted up Diamedin’s spirit stone. ‘This. This is our future, until there are none left to hide us away.’

  ‘I see. Ynnead. Now I understand the branch of fate I foresaw.’ Thirianna’s gaze turned towards the Ynnari, who were mustering around Yvraine on the scorched and cratered plain. Overhead, launches and other craft descended from orbit to take them back to their ships. ‘You think she has the answer? To doom all of our remaining people to Ynnead’s embrace?’

  ‘To release us from the grip of the Great Enemy. To become Reborn.’

  ‘It is self-murder.’

  ‘It is hope.’

  Thirianna said nothing for several heartbeats and then, much to his surprise, stepped forwards and embraced him. He returned the gesture, feeling the flickering heat of her runes as they circled about both of them.

  ‘We will not part in anger,’ said the farseer. She stepped back, a hand outstretched. ‘I will take care of your companion’s spirit stone.’

  ‘I did not really know her,’ said Aradryan. He moved to hand over Diamedin and then withdrew. ‘No. No, I shall not. She will be better with me. Among the living.’

  The pair remained silent, looking
at each other. There seemed nothing else to say, so Aradryan turned away and started towards the Ynnari.

  In his thoughts, the Whisper of Ynnead grew louder.

  About the Authors

  Chris Wraight is the author of the Horus Heresy novels Scars and The Path of Heaven, the Primarchs novels Leman Russ: The Great Wolf and Jaghatai Khan: Warhawk of Chogoris, the novellas Brotherhood of the Storm and Wolf King, and the audio drama The Sigillite. For Warhammer 40,000 he has written The Lords of Silence, Vaults of Terra: The Carrion Throne, Watchers of the Throne: The Emperor’s Legion, the Space Wolves novels Blood of Asaheim and Stormcaller, and the short story collection Wolves of Fenris, as well as the Space Marine Battles novels Wrath of Iron and War of the Fang. Additionally, he has many Warhammer novels to his name, including the Warhammer Chronicles novel Master of Dragons, which forms part of the War of Vengeance series. Chris lives and works in Bradford-on-Avon, in south-west England.

  Ian St. Martin is the author of the Horus Heresy: Primarchs novel Angron: Slave of Nuceria and audio drama Konrad Curze: A Lesson in Darkness. He has also written the Warhammer 40,000 novels Of Honour and Iron, Lucius: The Faultless Blade and Deathwatch: Kryptman’s War, along with the novella Steel Daemon and several short stories. He lives and works in Washington DC, caring for his cat and reading anything within reach.

  Alec Worley is a well-known comics and science fiction and fantasy author, with numerous publications to his name. He is an avid fan of Warhammer 40,000 and has written many short stories for Black Library including ‘Stormseeker’, ‘Whispers’ and ‘Repentia’, as well as the audio drama Perdition’s Flame. He lives and works in London.

  Justin D Hill is the author of the Warhammer 40,000 novels Cadia Stands and Cadian Honour, the Space Marine Battles novel Storm of Damocles and the short stories ‘Last Step Backwards’, ‘Lost Hope’ and ‘The Battle of Tyrok Fields’, following the adventures of Lord Castellan Ursarkar E. Creed. He has also written ‘Truth Is My Weapon’, and the Warhammer tales ‘Golgfag’s Revenge’ and ‘The Battle of Whitestone’. His novels have won a number of prizes, as well as being Washington Post and Sunday Times Books of the Year. He lives ten miles uphill from York, where he is indoctrinating his four children in the 40K lore.

  Robbie MacNiven is a Highlands-born History graduate from the University of Edinburgh. He has written the novel Scourge of Fate and the novella The Bone Desert for Warhammer Age of Sigmar, as well as the Warhammer 40,000 novels Blood of Iax, The Last Hunt, Carcharodons: Red Tithe, Carcharodons: Outer Dark and Legacy of Russ. His short stories include ‘Redblade’, ‘A Song for the Lost’ and ‘Blood and Iron’. His hobbies include re-enacting, football and obsessing over Warhammer 40,000.

  Ben Counter has two Horus Heresy novels to his name – Galaxy in Flames and Battle for the Abyss. He is the author of the Soul Drinkers series and The Grey Knights Omnibus. For Space Marine Battles, he has written The World Engine and Malodrax, and has turned his attention to the Space Wolves with the novella Arjac Rockfist: Anvil of Fenris as well as a number of short stories. He is a fanatical painter of miniatures, a pursuit that has won him his most prized possession: a prestigious Golden Demon award. He lives in Portsmouth, England.

  Josh Reynolds is the author of the Horus Heresy Primarchs novel Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix, and two audio dramas featuring the Blackshields: The False War and The Red Fief. His Warhammer 40,000 work includes Lukas the Trickster and the Fabius Bile novels Primogenitor and Clonelord. He has written many stories set in the Age of Sigmar, including the novels Shadespire: The Mirrored City, Soul Wars, Eight Lamentations: Spear of Shadows, the Hallowed Knights novels Plague Garden and Black Pyramid, and Nagash: The Undying King. His tales of the Warhammer old world include The Return of Nagash and The Lord of the End Times, and two Gotrek & Felix novels. He lives and works in Sheffield.

  Steve Lyons’ work in the Warhammer 40,000 universe includes the novellas Engines of War and Angron’s Monolith, the Imperial Guard novels Ice World and Dead Men Walking – now collected in the omnibus Honour Imperialis – and the audio dramas Waiting Death and The Madness Within. He has also written numerous short stories and is currently working on more tales from the grim darkness of the far future.

  Rob Sanders is the author of the Horus Heresy novellas Cybernetica and The Serpent Beneath, the latter of which appeared in the New York Times bestselling anthology The Primarchs. His other Black Library credits include the The Beast Arises novels Predator, Prey and Shadow of Ullanor, the Warhammer 40,000 titles Sons of the Hydra, Skitarius, Tech-Priest, Legion of the Damned, Atlas Infernal and Redemption Corps and the audio drama The Path Forsaken. He has also written the Warhammer Archaon duology, Everchosen and Lord of Chaos, along with many short stories for the Horus Heresy and Warhammer 40,000. He lives in the city of Lincoln, UK.

  L J Goulding is the author of the Horus Heresy audio drama The Heart of the Pharos, while for Space Marine Battles he has written the novel Slaughter at Giant’s Coffin and the audio drama Mortarion’s Heart. His other Warhammer fiction includes ‘The Great Maw’ and ‘Kaldor Draigo: Knight of Titan’, and he has continued to explore the dark legacy of Sotha in ‘The Aegidan Oath’ and Scythes of the Emperor: Daedalus. He lives and works in the US.

  Peter Fehervari is the author of the Warhammer 40,000 novels Requiem Infernal, Cult of the Spiral Dawn and Fire Caste, as well as the novella Fire and Ice from the Shas’o anthology. He has also written many short stories for Black Library, including the T’au-themed ‘Out Caste’ and ‘A Sanctuary of Wyrms’, the latter of which appeared in the anthology Deathwatch: Xenos Hunters. He also wrote ‘Nightfall’, which was in the Heroes of the Space Marines anthology, and ‘The Crown of Thorns’. He lives and works in London.

  Mike Brooks is a speculative fiction author who lives in Nottingham, UK. His fiction for Black Library includes the short stories ‘The Path Unclear’ and ‘Choke Point’, and the novella Wanted: Dead. When not writing, he works for a homelessness charity, plays guitar, sings in a punk band, and DJs wherever anyone will tolerate him.

  Cavan Scott has written the Space Marine Battles novella Plague Harvest, along with the Warhammer 40,000 short stories ‘Doom Flight’, ‘Trophies’, ‘Sanctus Reach: Death Mask’, ‘Flayed’ and ‘Logan Grimnar: Defender of Honour’. He lives and works in Bristol.

  Gav Thorpe is the author of the Age of Sigmar novel The Red Feast, the Horus Heresy novels Deliverance Lost, Angels of Caliban and Corax, as well as the novella The Lion, which formed part of the New York Times bestselling collection The Primarchs, and several audio dramas. He has written many novels for Warhammer 40,000, including Ashes of Prospero, Imperator: Wrath of the Omnissiah and the Rise of the Ynnari novels Ghost Warrior and Wild Rider. He also wrote the Path of the Eldar and Legacy of Caliban trilogies, and two volumes in The Beast Arises series. For Warhammer, Gav has penned the End Times novel The Curse of Khaine, the Warhammer Chronicles omnibus The Sundering, and much more besides. In 2017, Gav won the David Gemmell Legend Award for his Age of Sigmar novel Warbeast. He lives and works in Nottingham.

  An extract from Dark Imperium: Plague War.

  Weak light bobbed through pitchy black, casting a pale round that grew and shrank upon polished blue marble quarried on a world long ago laid waste. The hum of a grav motor sawed at the quiet of the abandoned hall, though not loudly enough to banish the peace of ages that lay upon it. The lamp was dim as candlelight, and greatly obscured by the iron lantern framing it. The angles of the servo-skull that bore the lantern further cut the glow, but even in the feeble luminance the stone gleamed with flecks of gold. The floor awoke for brief moments at its caress, glinting with a nebula’s richness, before the servo-skull moved on and the paving’s glory was lost to the dark again.

  The lonely figure of a man walked at the edge of the light, sometimes embraced by it completely, more often reduced to a collection of shadows and mellow highlights at its edge. The hood of his rough hom
espun robe was pulled over his head. Sandals woven of cord chased the light at a steady pace. The circle of light was small, but the echo of the man’s footsteps revealed the space it traversed as vast. Less could be discerned about the man, were there anyone there to see him. He was a priest. Little else could be said besides that. It would certainly not be obvious to a casual observer he was militant-apostolic to the Lord Commander. He did not dress as men of his office ordinarily would, in brocade and jewels. He did not seem exalted. He certainly did not feel so. To himself, and to those poor souls he offered the succour of the Emperor’s blessing, he was simply Mathieu.

  Mathieu was a man of faith, and to him the Space Marines seemed faithless, ignorant of the true majesty of the Emperor’s divinity, but the Mortuis Ad Monumentum had the air of sanctity nevertheless.

  Mathieu liked it for that reason.

  Beyond the slap of the priest’s shoes and the whine of the skull, the silence in the Mortuis Ad Monumentum was so total, the sense of isolation so complete, that not even the background thrum of the giant engines pushing the Macragge’s Honour through the warp intruded. The rest of the ship vibrated, sometimes violently, sometimes softly, the growl of the systems always there. Not where the priest walked. The stillness of the ancient hall would not allow it. Within its confines time itself held its breath.

  Mathieu had spent his quieter days exploring the hall. Its most singular features were the statues thronging the margins. They were not just in ones or twos, effigies given space to be walked around and admired, nor were they ensconced in alcoves to decorate or commemorate. No, there were crowds of stone men, in places forty deep, all Adeptus Astar­tes in ancient marks of armour. It may be that they were placed with care once, but no longer, and further into the hall, the more jumbled their arrangements became. The hall had been breached in days gone by, and the statues destroyed. Untidy heaps of limbs were bulldozed carelessly aside and ugly patching marked wounds from ancient times.