Wrath of the lost, p.1
Wrath Of The Lost, page 1
More Space Marines from Black Library
SONS OF SANGUINIUS
A Blood Angels omnibus containing Flesh Tearers by Andy Smillie and many other stories
• MEPHISTON •
by Darius Hinks
Book One: BLOOD OF SANGUINIUS
Book Two: REVENANT CRUSADE
Book Three: CITY OF LIGHT
ASTORATH: ANGEL OF MERCY
A Blood Angels novel by Guy Haley
DARKNESS IN THE BLOOD
A Blood Angels novel by Guy Haley
DANTE
A Blood Angels novel by Guy Haley
• DAWN OF FIRE •
Book One: AVENGING SON
by Guy Haley
Book Two: THE GATE OF BONES
by Andy Clark
Book Three: THE WOLFTIME
by Gav Thorpe
Book Four: THRONE OF LIGHT
by Guy Haley
• DARK IMPERIUM •
by Guy Haley
Book One: DARK IMPERIUM
Book Two: PLAGUE WAR
Book Three: GODBLIGHT
THE SUCCESSORS
An anthology by various authors
HELBRECHT: KNIGHT OF THE THRONE
A Black Templars novel by Marc Collins
SILENT HUNTERS
A Carcharodons novel by Edoardo Albert
THE HELWINTER GATE
A Space Wolves novel by Chris Wraight
MASTERS OF THE HUNT
A White Scars omnibus by various authors
Contents
Cover
Backlist
Warhammer 40,000
Wrath of the Lost
Prologue
PART ONE
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
PART TWO
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
PART THREE
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
PART FOUR
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Epilogue
About the Author
An Extract from ‘Dawn of Fire: Avenging Son’
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
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 might of His inexhaustible armies a million worlds stand against the dark.
Yet, He is a rotting carcass, the Carrion Lord of the Imperium held in life by marvels from the Dark Age of Technology and the thousand souls sacrificed each day so that His may continue to burn.
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. It is to suffer an eternity of carnage and slaughter. It is to have cries of anguish and sorrow drowned by the thirsting laughter of dark gods.
This is a dark and terrible era where you will find little comfort or hope. Forget the power of technology and science. Forget the promise of progress and advancement. Forget any notion of common humanity or compassion.
There is no peace amongst the stars, for in the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war.
Dramatis Personae
The Lords of the Flesh Tearers
Gabriel Seth – Chapter Master of the Flesh Tearers, Lord of Cretacia, Guardian of Rage
Appollus – High Chaplain of the Flesh Tearers, Master of the Lost, Keeper of the Tower
Harahel – Commander of the Honour Guard, Champion of the Chapter
The Fourth Company
Tanthius – Captain and Master of the Fleet
Teman – Lieutenant
Hanibal – Lieutenant
Dumah – Chaplain
Barachiel – Apothecary
Thuriel – Junior Apothecary
Paschar – Librarian
Hariel – Techmarine
Micah – Sergeant, Assault Intercessor squad
Adariel – Sergeant, Assault Intercessor squad
Daven – Assault Intercessor
Raziel – Sergeant, Assault Intercessor squad
Gathrix – Assault Intercessor
Castus – Assault Intercessor
Isaiah – Sergeant, Assault Intercessor squad
Kairus – Assault Intercessor
Toivo – Sergeant, Intercessor squad
Burloc – Sergeant, Intercessor squad
Castiel – Sergeant, Hellblaster squad
Tumelo – Sergeant, Hellblaster squad
Thanatos – Sergeant, Reiver squad
Angelo – Sergeant, Reiver squad
Kosmos – Reiver
Azariel – Sergeant, Eradicator squad, seconded from the Ninth Company
Castivar – Sergeant, Aggressor squad, seconded from the Ninth Company
Daeron – Venerable Dreadnought, emissary of Gabriel Seth
The Death Company
Gael Luciferus – Warrior
Helios Varro – Warrior
Aleksei Tamael – Warrior
Aurelius – Warrior
Tychos – Warrior
The Reclusiam
Kamiel – Chaplain
Israfil – Judiciar
Servants of the Chapter
Kara Étain – Shipmistress of the Cretacian Justice
Aesha – Adjutant and surgical lead
Reyan Abdemi – Armsman
Hakaar Vakhoni – Supervisor
The Children of Cretacia
Hakkad – Aspirant
PROLOGUE
The reliquaria’s dark iron doors cast a long shadow over Reyan Abdemi.
Carved with tiny cuneiform detailing the blood-soaked history of Cretacia’s angels, the chamber’s door was usually guarded by two archangels clad in thick slabs of sacred metal. Celebrated veterans of the God-Emperor’s sky-wars, their stature and aura of raw aggression never failed to set his heart racing and catch his breath in his throat. He had looked upon them with quiet awe, their heavy armour lending them a loose semblance to the statues of ancient war-gods he’d seen in countless Cretacian shrines.
Now the veterans were gone, with almost all their brethren.
In their place, two mismatched horrors of dark metal and greying flesh stood sentinel, their eyes lit by flat, murder-red stares. The thick coils of their arm-mounted light-casters glowed bright blue, harsh illumination grinding flashes of hot pain against his temples. Blood roared in his ears and his heart thudded a staccato rhythm against his sternum. He felt it echo in his knees and elbows. Like the angels, these new guardians had been known to kill those who failed to show the proper caution and respect.
A stone panel retracted on the nearest column, revealing a small square of clean black glass, like that left behind by the fire-mountains’ eruptions. Reyan pressed his right hand on it, ignoring the sudden flush of heat and the faint green thread tracing around his fingers and palm. The glass hummed and grew hotter, burning his callus-thickened skin. A wince hissed between his gritted teeth, but he kept his hand pressed against the plate. Needles bit into the tip of each digit, the hungering device exacting a blood-price as tribute.
‘Access granted,’ a harsh, grating voice boomed.
The stone snapped back over the plate and the hideous, half-metal sentinels swivelled on their gimbal-torsos to face outwards once more. The ancient doors ground open and the soft flicker of torchlight spilled out. Reyan glimpsed human-sized shadows darting across the widening gap, the soles of barasaur-hide boots clacking sharply on rough stone punctuated by the supervisor’s croaked orders. Wiping the blood on his ash-black fatigues, Reyan hefted his fire-caster and followed the scent of burned wood and fresh paint into the reliquaria.
He strode through the low light and carved stone. Galleries of granite pedestals and recessed alcoves held battered suits of metal armour, broken weapons, and banners stained with blood and grime in thin strands of white light. Cuneiform detailed the valiant deeds of angels fallen long seasons before his birth, their lines sharpened by mason-serfs through the careful application of hammer and chisel. The measured clunks knifed white-hot pain through his skull, but Reyan was grateful for it. The pain muted the silence.
Reyan had feared silence since the angels had left Cretacia.
The armsman walked further into the hall, absorbing the faint details of mosaics and frescoes where angels battled lithe, laughing monsters and shadows of fang, claw and dark flame. The artworks framed relics of warriors that had walked in the God-Emperor’s time, their deeds captured in faded colour and eroded line. He read their legends, confusion prickling his mind. Several words had been used in a context that no longer made sense, while others held no meaning to him at all. Had their language evolved so much since the angels’ arrival?
He dismissed the question as unimportant.
Reyan reached the farthest end of the reliquaria, pausing before a towering suit of armour, like that of the angels, but larger and more imposing. His eyes locked on the dull green of its inactive lenses, before scrolling along the crimson-and-black metal of its chest and arms. He read echoes of titanic struggles against unimaginable horrors in its scars, and ferocity finally unchained in the saw-toothed blades and bulky fire-casters attached to its fists. His gaze fell to the legend beneath it, written in elegant script that had no origin on Cretacia.
They will die, you know.+
Reyan’s heart seized. The voices were back, stalking his thoughts as they had done since the angels sailed away. They refused to leave him alone.
Soon your beloved angels will meet their end.+
‘No, please…’ He silently begged the God-Emperor, master of the heavens and the stars, great ancestor to the angels. ‘Cretacia cannot lose her angels.’
Cruel laughter echoed in his skull.
The Anathema cannot save them, fool, and they will not survive what now comes for them. The Devourer will rend their flesh, and the Angels’ Bane will take their strongest into his service. By blade or by blood-oath will he bring them to Kharnath’s throne.+
Reyan screwed his eyes shut, white-knuckling his fire-caster. Visions of burning jungles and mountains ground to meal beset him, the scent of smouldering wood spiced by the spoiled-meat reek of the rotting corpses choking the rivers. His ears rang with the howls of red-skinned beasts with curved fangs and snarling, toothed saw blades that slaughtered his people for sport. It was the same whenever he closed his eyes.
Sleep was a refuge denied to him.
‘Did you say something, armsman?’ a cracked voice called.
Reyan spun wildly, searching for the speaker, heart pounding against his sternum. Had he spoken aloud? Or had the voices invaded the world beyond his skull?
‘Or are you here for another lesson?’
Hakaar Vakhoni hobbled towards him and Reyan’s heart settled to an even rhythm. Hakaar was a withered specimen, ravaged by time and servitude. Skin hung slack from his sparse frame. The tufted echo of a beard sprouted from his wattled chin. Age crooked his spine so much that his upper body resembled the cane he clutched in stiff, shaking hands, though his eyes gleamed with a fierce intelligence. Hakaar had been a formidable fighter in his time, a high chief of the armsmen before infirmity relegated him to maintenance.
‘I learned all you had to teach long ago, old man.’
‘Believe that at your own peril, lad,’ Hakaar laughed – a wet, throaty rasp. He patted Reyan on the chest, the arthritic echo of old strength still clinging to the elder’s hands. ‘I could still humble you in the fighting pits without even breaking a sweat.’
The whispers throttled Reyan’s laughter.
‘If you say so,’ Reyan said, flavouring the words with forced humour. The old man’s eyes narrowed and Reyan flinched inside. Words slipped between his teeth like water through cracks in a dam. ‘I know better than to steal an old man’s fantasies.’
Hakaar scowled.
Reyan quashed the nervous wrench that twisted his stomach. The disrespect of an elder was a great offence among the clans, but his relationship with the old man had always risen above such tradition. The voices receded, though the scent of burned wood and decomposing flesh still circled his nostrils. Bile flooded his mouth.
A chuckle broke Hakaar’s wizened scowl.
‘Did the carvings catch your eye?’
Reyan nodded, swallowing the bile.
‘No point trying to read them, lad,’ Hakaar said, leaning heavily on his cane. ‘The tongue of the first angels can only be read by their heirs. It is tradition, unbroken since they saved Cretacia and made her their heaven.’
Hakaar led him away from the heavy armour, towards a ragged banner of black cloth, easily three times his height. Blood and grime marked the fabric but failed to obscure the cup that brimmed with blood, the angelic killer, and the toothed saw blade and cerise droplet of the angels. Hakaar hefted an age-arched finger and pointed to the mural behind it.
Reyan gasped to see a crude reflection of the banner clutched in the metal hand of an angel. Tails of orange fire streaked blue skies, trees and mountains rendered in smears of grey and mixed green. A second angel, massive beyond reckoning, wore the same suit of heavy armour that had fascinated him moments ago, and stood at their head like a chieftain. Awe flushed through Reyan’s veins to see them battling green monsters, thick with muscle and yellow-tusked, beside smaller, dark-skinned figures that could only be Cretacian warriors.
‘Our ancestors painted this during the era of the first hunts,’ Hakaar said. ‘When they helped the angels raise their home. They say sky-fire rained upon the clans for seven days, that smoking rocks carved open the earth for the under-dwellers to emerge and spill our people’s blood. It was only by the efforts of the angels that they were stopped.’
Reyan knew the story well.
His parents, like any other mated human pair on Cretacia, had used the threat of the under-dwellers and their dark cousins, the Night Terrors, as cautionary tales whenever he and his siblings misbehaved or shamed themselves. His people feared the monsters’ return, even with the angels’ vigil over Cretacia promising to keep them safe. They spat and spilled blood to ward against that dread event, hissing whenever they were invoked. Some clans even offered sacrifices at the sites of the ancient battles.
Reyan had visited the sites twice himself.
‘Do you know why the angels left?’ he asked the older helot, feeling absurdly childish for each breath he assigned to the question. He could not stop himself. He had to know why they abandoned Cretacia. ‘Why only five remain to keep the vigil?’
Hakaar chuckled again.
‘The angels do not entrust mere mortals with that knowledge, boy,’ he said. ‘Rest assured, they have left before. Twice in my lifetime they have all sailed into the stars to serve the God-Emperor. We thought them gone forever, but they endured His trials and returned to us with fresh trophies and new tales. This time will be no different, mark me.’
Reyan drew breath to speak when something heavy struck the reliquaria’s door. The clamour of charging weapons and raised voices slipped through the narrow gap between the stone wall and iron portal. Artisan-serfs ceased their restoration efforts, casting fearful gazes at the door. Hakaar hobbled towards them, shouting for them to continue their work when the metal trembled again. Reyan’s grip tightened on his fire-caster as he backed away.
The door crashed open and one of the monstrous half-metal guardians skidded along the stone floor, its torso ripped from its legs. Its light-caster was torn free, the stump of its shoulder leaking thick black fluid. The light vanished from its eyes, the silver grate of its lips rasping something akin to a death rattle. Reyan watched the artisans heft their hammers and chisels with growing terror. Had the under-dwellers risen with the angels’ disappearance?
He shrank further back, clutching his fire-caster.
An angel charged into the hall. Reyan’s relief caught in his throat when he saw the angel’s armour was marred by fresh scars and simmering scorch marks. The angel was bareheaded and unarmed, his expression locked in a rictus mask of fury and old scars, streaked by dried gore. A vicious burn peeled back one cheek to expose stringy tendons and nubs of blackened bone. His eyes were pools of liquid black madness.
‘Traitors!’ the angel bellowed, closing on the serfs. Several fell to their knees, hands clasped or raised in fear, moaning protestations of loyalty through salty tears. Others were rooted to the spot, frozen by confusion or terror. ‘Vile oathbreakers! Slaves to Horus! Upon which deck does your master cower?’
Then the killing began.
Reyan cowered behind the banner’s plinth. Wailed pleas and shrieks pounded his ears, a nightmarish kaleidoscope of pain and terror punctuated by the dry snap of bone and the wet wrench of violated flesh. Vomit seared the serf’s throat, spraying through the gaps between his gritted teeth to stain his thighs. The angel screamed demands for blood, for this Horus to step forward and account for his sins. Reyan knew no one by the name. It was not Cretacian, nor was it an angel name. An awful realisation settled on him, numbing his horror.
