The Emperor's Gift

215 Pages·2016·1.35 MB·English

WARHAMMER 40,000
I F E G T E H
T IS THE 41ST MILLENNIUM. OR MORE THAN A HUNDRED CENTURIES THE MPEROR HAS SAT IMMOBILE ON THE OLDEN HRONE OF ARTH. E IS THE MASTER OF
H
MANKIND BY THE WILL OF THE GODS, AND MASTER OF A MILLION WORLDS BY THE MIGHT OF HIS INEXHAUSTIBLE ARMIES. E IS A ROTTING CARCASS WRITHING INVISIBLY WITH POWER
D A T H C L I
FROM THE ARK GE OF ECHNOLOGY. E IS THE ARRION ORD OF THE MPERIUM FOR WHOM A THOUSAND SOULS ARE SACRIFICED EVERY DAY, SO THAT HE MAY NEVER TRULY
DIE.
Y E M
ET EVEN IN HIS DEATHLESS STATE, THE MPEROR CONTINUES HIS ETERNAL VIGILANCE. IGHTY BATTLEFLEETS CROSS THE DAEMON-INFESTED MIASMA OF THE WARP, THE ONLY
A E V
ROUTE BETWEEN DISTANT STARS, THEIR WAY LIT BY THE STRONOMICAN, THE PSYCHIC MANIFESTATION OF THE MPEROR’S WILL. AST ARMIES GIVE BATTLE IN HIS NAME ON
G H A A S M T
UNCOUNTED WORLDS. REATEST AMONGST IS SOLDIERS ARE THE DEPTUS STARTES, THE PACE ARINES, BIO-ENGINEERED SUPER-WARRIORS. HEIR COMRADES IN ARMS
I G I A M
ARE LEGION: THE MPERIAL UARD AND COUNTLESS PLANETARY DEFENCE FORCES, THE EVER-VIGILANT NQUISITION AND THE TECH-PRIESTS OF THE DEPTUS ECHANICUS TO
B
NAME ONLY A FEW. UT FOR ALL THEIR MULTITUDES, THEY ARE BARELY ENOUGH TO HOLD OFF THE EVER-PRESENT THREAT FROM ALIENS, HERETICS, MUTANTS - AND WORSE.
T I T
O BE A MAN IN SUCH TIMES IS TO BE ONE AMONGST UNTOLD BILLIONS. T IS TO LIVE IN THE CRUELLEST AND MOST BLOODY REGIME IMAGINABLE. HESE ARE THE TALES OF THOSE
F F
TIMES. ORGET THE POWER OF TECHNOLOGY AND SCIENCE, FOR SO MUCH HAS BEEN FORGOTTEN, NEVER TO BE RE-LEARNED. ORGET THE PROMISE OF PROGRESS AND UNDERSTANDING,
T
FOR IN THE GRIM DARK FUTURE THERE IS ONLY WAR. HERE IS NO PEACE AMONGST THE STARS, ONLY AN ETERNITY OF CARNAGE AND SLAUGHTER, AND THE LAUGHTER OF THIRSTING
GODS.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Emperor’s Gift isn’t the book I set out to write. It isn’t the book I planned, and it isn’t the book I
told my editor I’d deliver. In most cases, that’s not a big deal. I never stick to an outline. In this case, I
decided to scrap everything I’d written and start over.
Let me explain. The new edition of Codex: Grey Knights dropped halfway through this book,
updating their lore and leaving a lot of what I’d written suddenly outdated. I originally had visions of
telling the story leading up to the First War for Armageddon. It’s a seminal event in the Warhammer
40,000 setting, and it deserves to be explored. But the more I researched into the archives, the more I
realised that the crucial part played by the Grey Knights was, ultimately, a very short-lived one. They
did very little in the war itself, beyond striking the final blow.
(For the record, the character named ‘Aurellian’ isn’t a nod to any of my other work. I’d rather not
have to repeat names like that, but it was already established in Grey Knights lore, so I was reluctant
to change it.)
As the deadline for The Emperor’s Gift got closer and closer – then vanished behind me in a
familiar blur – I realised that the buildup to the First War for Armageddon wasn’t the story I was
telling, any more. I was telling the story of what came before and what came after.
The First War certainly features in these pages. It’s a fulcrum moment for the characters in this
novel, but it’s not the point of the story. Don’t buy this book with the expectation it’s a First War novel.
It’s not supposed to be. The First War wasn’t the Grey Knights’ war; it belonged to the heroes of
Armageddon, and a certain famous Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes that likes to run in packs and howl
at the moon.
So this isn’t that story. Maybe in time, their story will be told. This is the story of a young warrior,
clad in armour as old as humanity’s darkest secrets, as he joins a proud and honourable knightly
order. Even more than that, this is the story of how he came to stand at the heart of a venerable squad
of sworn brothers, and took part in the most shameful battle the Grey Knights ever fought.
Like I said, The Emperor’s Gift isn’t the book I set out to write. It isn’t the book I planned, and it
isn’t the book I told my editor I’d deliver. I’m glad of that now, but for a while it was pretty terrifying.
I started with something in mind, then scrapped the whole book and came at it from a completely
different angle.
So what is it, then?
That’s a pretty easy question to answer. After looking deep into the lore of Titan’s grey-clad sons,
The Emperor’s Gift is the story I wanted to tell.
Here ends my self-indulgent author’s note.
You’re on your own now.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
ANNIKA JARLSDOTTYR – Inquisitor, Ordo Malleus.
AXIUM – Executor Primaris of the Adeptus Mechanicus ‘Palladium Kataphrakt’
coven.
BRAND RAWTHROAT – Wolf Guard of the Adeptus Astartes Space Wolves
Chapter.
DUMENIDON – Grey Knight, warrior of Squad Castian.
ENCELADUS – Grey Knight, Sepulcar of the Dead Fields.
FREDERIC DARFORD – Inquisitorial agent, former lieutenant and sniper in the
Mordian Iron Guard 151st Infantry.
GALEO – Grey Knight, Justicar of Squad Castian.
GARVEN MERRICK – Inquisitorial agent, former enforcer.
GHESMEI KYSNAROS – Lord Inquisitor, unaligned.
GRAUVR – Space Marine of the Adeptus Astartes
Space Wolves Chapter.
HYPERION – Grey Knight, pyrokine warrior of Squad Castian.
JOROS – Grey Knight, Grand Master of the Eighth Brotherhood.
LOGAN GRIMNAR – ‘The Great Wolf’, High King of Fenris and Chapter Master
of the Adeptus Astartes Space Wolves Chapter.
MALCHADIEL – Grey Knight, telekine warrior of Squad Castian; twin brother of
Sothis.
NADION – Grey Knight, Apothecary of the Eighth Brotherhood.
RYMIR CLOVON – Inquisitorial agent, former leader of the
heretical Coppertongue cult.
SOSA KHATAN – ‘The Khatan’; Inquisitorial agent, former trooper in the 73rd
Attilan Rough Riders.
SOTHIS – Grey Knight, warrior of Squad Castian; twin brother of Malchadiel.
TALWYN CASTOR – Lifebonded captain of the Grey Knights warship Karabela.
TAREMAR AURELLIAN – ‘The Gold’; Grey Knight, Brother-Captain of the
Third Brotherhood.
TORCRITH – Grey Knight, Prognosticar of the Augurium.
VASILLA TERESS – Inquisitorial agent, Sister of the Order of the Scrittura.
VAURMAND – Grey Knight, Grand Master of the Third Brotherhood.
‘One unbreakable shield against the coming darkness,
One last blade, forged in defiance of fate.
Let them be my legacy to the galaxy I conquered,
And my final gift to the species I failed.’
– Inscription upon the Arcus Daemonica, attributed to the Emperor of Mankind
PROLOGUE
AWAKENING
I
‘I don’t know.’
His life could be distilled into those three words. What little he remembered of it, anyway.
‘I don’t know.’ He said it to the voices, each time they asked him those same questions. They never
asked anything else.
What is your name?
‘I don’t know.’
What year is it?
‘I don’t know.’
There’d be a pause, for exactly six seconds. He’d count the beats in his mind. Sometimes, if it was
late in the questioning, his racing heartbeat would throw off his counting. It was never enough.
They’d always ask again.
What is your name? came the voice from nowhere – always male, but not always the same voice.
‘I don’t know,’ he’d say to the surrounding emptiness. His voice didn’t echo. The blackness seemed
to swallow it whole. He couldn’t even see his hand held up before his face. No amount of staring
wide-eyed ever brought clarity to the nothingness.
What year is it?
‘I don’t know.’
Sometimes, as they questioned him, he’d push his knuckles against his closed eyes, trying to make
bright pressure-smears just to bring colour to the darkness.
It never worked. That’s how he knew he was blind.
II
He couldn’t say how long it took for things to change, but change they did: first the question, and then
the answer.
His ‘day’ began the moment his eyes first opened, no different from before. As ever, he couldn’t
move beyond the small confines of what he considered his cell. He checked each time he awoke,
running his hands along what felt like cold, featureless stone. The stone tasted like salt, and smelled of
blood. There was no door.
What is your name? demanded the voice. A low and aggressively masculine tone, today. Almost
angry.
‘I don’t know.’
What year is it?
‘I don’t know.’
He wondered if he’d committed some grievous crime. Perhaps this was his punishment. That made
sense, didn’t it? The thought wasn’t a new one, for it often danced through his consciousness,
inspiring more fruitless, answerless musing.
He’d asked the voices before, of course, many times. He’d also learned quickly enough that they
were extremely unforthcoming. They would ask, but never answer.
What is your name?
He sighed, slinking back to the thin blanket he considered his bed. In the sightless dark, he wrapped
the rag around his shoulders, and returned to shivering.
‘I don’t know.’
What year is it?
‘I don’t know.’
He was hungry, which surprised him. He rarely woke feeling hunger. Though he couldn’t
remember eating or drinking anything since first waking there, he knew they fed him. Still, the only
taste he knew was that the walls left a saline tingle on the tongue, so he suspected his sustenance came
through an intravenous process during the hours he was unconscious. The tiny pinpricks along his
forearms were always sorest just after he awoke.
He fingered them now, all the way down to the metal socket plugs at his wrists.
What is your name?
He’d answered differently, at first. He’d railed at the unseen voices, demanding answers and
insisting he shouldn’t be here. The latter claim always felt more than a little hollow, since he had no
idea at all whether he should be there or not. He often wondered if he deserved to be contained as he
was. Perhaps he did. Perhaps he was a murderer.
These thoughts granted him little guilt, for he could remember nothing of his life outside these
walls. Penance was an easy trial when one couldn’t recall the sin.
Eventually, the routine settled into place. He no longer invented names or spat out meaningless
syllables. He abandoned the sullen silences, and the equally-ineffective shouted questions. They hurt
him whenever he said anything except the truth.
‘I don’t know.’
What year is it?
‘I don’t know.’
He’d never understood just how they hurt him, but the pain would begin in his head and bloom
outwards from there. A dull throb behind his eyes would leak to his ears and the roof of his mouth,
creeping down his spine. The last time he’d managed to endure it until his fingers felt as if they were
aflame. The pain had dripped all the way down his torso, infecting half of his body.
Pain was a catalyst for honesty. He told the truth after that moment. He told it unfailingly.
What is your name?
Was he going to die here? Did he have long left to live? These thoughts struck with greater force
than any guilt. Feeling his own flesh never offered much in the way of enlightenment. With no sight
for reference, he was reduced to guesswork. Despite not feeling any loose skin, scars or obvious
wrinkles, his flesh was grotesquely tight to the bones beneath. That could just as easily be a sign of
advanced age as it could suggest malnutrition. He had no idea if it was either, both, or neither.
It was a bizarre feeling to not even know how old he was, somehow stranger than not knowing his
name, or remembering the sin that sentenced him to that cell.
What is your name? The voice snarled this time.
Was that a repetition? Had he missed an answer? The pain sparked like a second heartbeat in his
head, throbbing in his sinuses and the delicate tissue connecting his eyes to his brain. He had to spit to
clear his mouth of the sudden drool-flush.
Maybe they would kill him if he held back from answering. He’d tried to die that way before, back
in the beginning, but the pain always broke him, leaving him weeping and panting, confessing the
truth yet again.
What is your name?
He looked up, seeing nothing, already feeling the tremble in his fingers as the pain spread with
pinching fire down to his jaw. A snorted breath, not quite a laugh, broke from his wet lips. He felt
himself smiling, felt the welcome warmth of tears on his face. Perhaps this was what going mad felt
like. Perhaps he’d been mad for months already.
What is your name?
His cheeks hurt, both from the spreading punishment and the ache of grinning. This shouldn’t be
funny, but it was. In a way, it really was. What had he done to belong here? It must have been
something bad. Something really, truly bad.
Was he important? Did he know something they wanted to pry from his skull? If that was the case,
they were out of luck; the memory-starved darkness in his head was as empty as the blackness before
his eyes.
That set him laughing again, harder this time.
‘My name,’ he began to answer, but crumbled into childish sniggering. The pain ramped up,
quicker than before, knifing to his tongue and throat in a quick pulse. He gagged, but didn’t stop
grinning. If there’d been anything in his system, he would have thrown it up right then and there.
What is your name?
‘I don’t know.’ The pain receded, but didn’t dissipate completely. He was still locked into a
madman’s smile as he drew another breath. ‘I don’t know.’
He leaned back against the wall, the laughter finally fading. ‘My name is whatever you want it to be.
My name is whatever it needs to be, to get me the hell out of here.’
In an instant, the pain vanished. The voices went with it, leaving him cold, blind, and unsure if he’d
passed some kind of test, or failed it.
III
When he awoke next, his arms were sore.
His hands were leaden weights, connected to stone-heavy bones that weighed his muscles down.
Even opening his eyes was a trial.
With a grunt, he reached to feel the tender skin of his forearms. Dots of pain marked the miniscule
puncture wounds, and he wondered just how long he’d been unconscious this time. He couldn’t
remember going to sleep, but that wasn’t anything new. He could never remember drifting off into
welcoming slumber. A hollow absence punctuated his periods of wakening into the cold – he
suspected they were rendering him unconscious somehow, rather than letting him succumb to natural
sleep.
Your name is Twenty-six. The voice was gentler now, though still grindingly masculine. He froze,
statue-still in the blackness, suddenly trembling. You have accepted that you must bear a new name.
That is the first step. Your name is Twenty-six.