Crimson Fists Read online

  More Warhammer 40,000 from Black Library

  • DAWN OF FIRE •

  BOOK 1: AVENGING SON

  Guy Haley

  BOOK 2: THE GATE OF BONES

  Andy Clark

  BOOK 3: THE WOLFTIME

  Gav Thorpe

  INDOMITUS

  Gav Thorpe

  • THE TWICE DEAD KING •

  Nate Crowley

  BOOK 1: RUIN

  BOOK 2: REIGN

  • DARK IMPERIUM •

  Guy Haley

  BOOK 1: DARK IMPERIUM

  BOOK 2: PLAGUE WAR

  BOOK 3: GODBLIGHT

  THE DEVASTATION OF BAAL

  A Blood Angels novel by Guy Haley

  ASHES OF PROSPERO

  A Space Wolves novel by Gav Thorpe

  WAR OF SECRETS

  A Dark Angels novel by Phil Kelly

  OF HONOUR AND IRON

  An Ultramarines novel by Ian St. Martin

  APOCALYPSE

  A Space Marines novel by Josh Reynolds

  FIST OF THE IMPERIUM

  A Space Marines novel by Andy Clark

  Contents

  Cover

  Backlist

  Title Page

  Warhammer 40,000

  RYNN’S WORLD

  Prologue

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Part Two

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Part Three

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Epilogue

  LEGACY OF DORN

  Part One

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Part Two

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Epilogue

  TRAITOR’S GORGE

  THE FEW

  CULLING THE HORDE

  NONE MORE LOYAL

  PEDRO KANTOR: THE VENGEFUL FIST

  About the Authors

  An Extract from ‘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.

  RYNN’S WORLD

  STEVE PARKER

  PROLOGUE

  TRANSMISSION

  There won’t be time to broadcast again, so this is it. We’ve held out for as long as we can, but they’ll breach within the hour, and this array, the only real hope we had, will be lost to us. There isn’t time to scuttle it properly. Sergeant Praetes wants us to leave immediately. The greenskin artillery barrage is creeping closer by the second. They’ve already obliterated the government buildings and the collegium, and neither of those is far from here. But I have to try, just one last message before we pull out for good. If we’re lucky, the orks will reduce this facility to rubble behind us, not recognising its value.

  I’ve already started moving the last of the Lammasian squads out of the north gate. I’ll retreat with the rearguard as soon as this is sent. The final party of civilians and wounded troopers left yesterday with an escort of able-bodied men from the 1Eight Mordian. There aren’t many left. That goes for civilians and soldiers both. I’m down to a handful of combat platoons cobbled together from what’s left of three shattered regiments.

  It has fallen to me to lead them. Six days ago, I assumed overall command, and not by choice. The entire cadre of senior officers was wiped out in some kind of greenskin stealth attack. That might sound implausible given the nature of the foe, but on my honour, they were in and out like ghosts, leaving a room full of headless corpses behind them. I suppose they wanted more foul trophies, though Emperor knows, they should have enough of them by now.

  My own head would be hanging from the belt of some greenskin savage right now were it not for my duties. I was executing a trio of faithless deserters at the time.

  I see the Emperor’s hand in that.

  My own faith, the fuel by which I continue to fight, tells me that He must be watching over me. All things are part of His great plan. I will not allow myself to fall into a deadly despair. I know that Rynn’s World is not far from here, barely two weeks’ travel as the warp flows. If the Emperor wills it, the Crimson Fists may have received word of our plight already. Lord of Mankind, grant that they are en route even as I speak.

  It is not an unreasonable supposition. We have been transmitting steadily, every hour, on the hour, since the first of the greenskin assault ships cut across the sky. Surely someone has heard our call.

  (Sound of muffled artillery fire and explosive impacts.)

  Damn the filthy xenos! Their shells are definitely getting closer. It won’t be long now. I… I can still barely comprehend the numbers we face. The orbital defence grid was overstretched from the start. The sky went dark with their ships. I should have executed someone for that; according to records, the missile and plasma defence batteries hadn’t been inspected by a tech-priest in over three hundred years!

  At the very least, there should have been some kind of warning. Why was there no word from the relay station on Dagoth? I can only imagine that the orks struck there first, and with such speed that there was no time to alert the rest of the sector. Now Badlanding pays the price.
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  If anyone receives this – it doesn’t matter who you are – you must send word to the Crimson Fists. Do not try to aid us alone. Only the Adeptus Astartes can help us now. This is no fight for a lesser force. An ork incursion of this magnitude… it has to be a Waaagh! And, if it isn’t checked here, it will grow. By Throne, will it grow.

  Lord of Mankind, don’t let it be too late.

  To the Space Marines of the Crimson Fists, I say this: if you receive this message in time to offer us any hope of rescue, know that we have abandoned Krugerport for the cave networks beneath the Scratch Mountains just north of the city. We’ll dig in there for as long as we can. There is no other refuge left to us.

  Our supplies are expected to last another week, perhaps two if we–

  (Sound of distant stubber-fire answered immediately by the closer,

  louder crack of las-weapons. Urgent shouting from multiple

  individuals at once.)

  The artillery has ceased. They’re making an infantry push!

  We’re pulling out. I’m sending this without encryption.

  In the name of the Immortal Saviour, I pray that someone hears it.

  Hurry! Get this message to Rynn’s World! If we are to die here so that others might be warned, then so be it. But let our deaths not be in vain.

  This is Commissar Alhaus Baldur signing off.

  Munitorum Identicode (verified): CM41656-18F

  Timestamp (IST): 17:44:01 3015989.M41

  PART ONE

  ‘When a man dies before his time, how much is truly lost?

  More than just a life, certainly. A branch withers and bears no more fruit. Futures are erased. Paths close that can never be re-opened. Would his offspring have been saints? Killers? Both?

  When a man dies before his time, the answers go with him.

  This begs the question: should not all men be saved?’

  Extract: Diary of a Survivor

  Viscount Nilo Vanader Isopho

  (936.M41-991.M41)

  ONE

  ARX TYRANNUS, HELLBLADE MOUNTAINS

  ‘Upheaval,’ said Ruthio Terraro, staring down at the cards he had pulled from the deck. They lay in the pattern known as The Burning Star, a dark omen in itself. He did not remember touching a single one, nor had he consciously chosen their arrangement, but the absence of those memories did not surprise him. The deep trance was always the same. So was the awakening. Like a vivid dream of falling to one’s death, it always ended with a shout and a shudder and a gasping for breath.

  That he still emerged from the trance this way angered Terraro, for it was the mark of a Librarian yet to fully master his gifts, and the other Codiciers had already moved beyond it. But if it bothered the giant figure on Terraro’s right, there was no indication.

  ‘Upheaval,’ echoed the giant. ‘Go on, my brother.’

  ‘A struggle against great odds,’ Terraro continued, turning from the cards. ‘Oceans of blood. Storm clouds, dark and heavy with impending violence. Below them, a fork in the road, signifying choice. Two paths, one leading to day, the other to night. So it has been the last four times, honoured brother, and with only the most minor variations. Do you wish me to try again?’

  The giant, Eustace Mendoza, Master of the Librarius, moved to the Codicier’s shoulder and stood over him, glaring down with dark, hooded eyes at the ancient cards. Their stylised images seemed to move, to dance in the glow from the golden candelabras, while the rest of the chamber remained thick with shadow.

  ‘No, Ruthio,’ he said, his voice a deep baritone. ‘That will not be necessary. Your interpretation corroborates Brother Deguerro’s visions. The currents of time and the immaterium will reveal nothing more to us tonight. The Epistolaries and I will discuss the matter at the next council. For now, you must return to your quarters and have the Chosen attend you. Full plate and arms, do you understand? We must look our finest. First light will break in four hours, and the Day of Foundation shall be upon us. There is a great deal of ceremony to observe.’

  With a nod, Terraro gathered up his cards, pushed his chair back from the broad oak desk, and rose to his feet. Standing two metres tall, he was still a head shorter than the Master of the Librarius, but equally broad across the shoulders. On one of those shoulders, his master now placed a big calloused hand and, together, they walked from the room.

  ‘Until the coming day is over,’ Eustace Mendoza told Terraro as they passed into the echoing, lamplit corridor beyond, ‘the future will have to wait.’

  Alessio Cortez, who by his own confession lacked the slightest interest in the musical arts, found himself deeply moved by the hymn that now echoed from the Reclusiam’s dark stone walls. It was as mournful as it was ancient, its every beautiful note a heart-rending lament to the battle-brothers the Chapter had lost, not just in the last hundred years, but in all the long millennia since its glorious inception.

  Cortez had heard the hymn just three times in his life, for it was only sung on the Day of Foundation, but his perfect recall of those previous times did nothing to dull its effect now. All those deaths, all the one-sided farewells, they came back to him, just as they were meant to. This was the time to mourn properly. This was the time to remember the sacrifice his noble brothers had made, and his heart was heavy with the sorrow of it. More importantly, it was also filled with pride.

  There was no guilt to dampen that feeling. He had survived three and a half centuries of war, and he was long past survivor’s guilt. An Astartes lived or died by his skills and attributes, his teamwork, his unending dedication to perfecting the art of war and to the oaths of honourable service he had made. Death was inevitable, even for a Space Marine. It was just a matter of time. Immortality was the province of the Emperor alone, regardless of what anyone else said.

  He looked across the Reclusiam to the opposite arm of the transept, study­ing the servitor-choir from which the hymn continued to pour forth. What pitiful creatures they were! Their skinny, limbless bodies were fixed to short pillars of black marble which concealed the mechanical workings that kept them half-alive. Every eye-socket was bolted over with iron plate. From every mouth, a black vox-amp grille protruded, and from each pale, hairless head, ribbed cables extended, linking them together in perfect synchronicity, their rudimentary intellects united and focussed only on the song.

  On the gallery to Cortez’s right, high above the Reclusiam’s entrance, yet another servitor sat, hardwired into a massive mechanical steam organ that boomed out dour musical accompaniment.

  Wretches all, thought Cortez. But perhaps it is better they sing our sadness for us than that we try to sing it for ourselves.

  He almost grinned, thinking that his own rough voice, if forced into song, would do no honour to the dead. In fact, it was more likely to cause insult.

  This was not an original thought. He made the same joke to himself every century, and let it pass just as quickly. Matters which did not involve the killing of the Chapter’s many foes seldom held Cortez’s attention for more than a few seconds.

  Pedro was always chastising him for that.

  The hymn came to an end now, its final sorrowful note reverberating in the minds of the congregation for moments after the sound itself had ceased. Cortez let it go, feeling unburdened somehow, and turned his attention towards the apse, to an altar of gilt-edged black marble where High Chaplain Tomasi now stepped forwards and began reciting words of remembrance from the Book of Dorn.

  He was an impressive figure, Marqol Tomasi. As High Chaplain, he needed to be, for he was often required to command the absolute attention of large congregations such as this. There was no room for self-doubt or diffidence in a man of his station. It was his duty, and the duty of his subordinate Chaplains, to safeguard the faith and obedience of every last battle-brother and serf in the service of the Chapter. When he spoke, others had to listen, had to believe in him and in the relig
ious strictures he espoused.

  Cortez respected Tomasi a great deal, perhaps even liked him a little. The High Chaplain was a ferocious close-quarters fighter with almost as many high-profile kills to his name as Cortez himself claimed. But, more than this, they shared a certain outlook on life, characterised by its elegant simplicity. The enemies of the Emperor must be sundered, and the honour of the Chapter maintained. With these two things taken care of, all else was moot. What more could there be? Why did Pedro concern himself with secondary and tertiary matters, like the annual petitioners, or planetary law reforms, or pan-sector trade relations? What did any of that matter to a Space Marine?

  After a few minutes, Tomasi stopped reading aloud from the Book of Dorn, and stepped around to the front of the golden lectern on which it rested. His armour was utterly black, polished to such a sheen that it gleamed like a dark mirror in the light from the wall sconces and the thousands of votive candles on either side of the apse. His ceramite breastplate and pauldrons were adorned with the gleaming bones of fallen foes and with wax-and-parchment purity seals, each delineated with a blessing written in blood. His helmet, with its distinctive faceplate – an extremely detailed rendition of a skull cast in flawless, polished gold – was clipped to his belt, leaving his harsh, deeply-lined features in plain view. Even among the Crimson Fists, few dared to hold that fearsome gaze for long.

  This was the part of the service where Tomasi called out to the Emperor and to the Primarch Rogal Dorn to look down on the congregation and bless them in all the bloody work ahead. He spoke of the Chapter’s hated enemies and of the slaughter they sought to perpetrate, the rape of worlds, the subjugation or destruction of all mankind.

  His words took their intended effect, gradually charging the air as if an electrical storm were building. Cortez felt something rise within him and knew it was hate, pure and powerful and always there, his constant companion, fuel for the fire that burned inside.

  Every century, scores of Crimson Fists gave their lives in battle to protect the Imperium from the foul maladies that infected it. From the outside, stabbing inwards with inexplicable hatred and barbarity, myriad alien races sought to undo all that the Imperium had struggled for ten thousand years to build. From the inside, perhaps the most contemptible of all, came the unforgivable corruption and madness of the traitor, the mutant and the foul, ungrateful heretic.