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Our Lord on Terra - Gav Thorpe

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About the Author

An Extract from ‘Indomitus’

A Black Library Publication

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Our Lord on Terra

Gav Thorpe

'By the power of the Thronelord, I compel thee! By the Artifices of the Red, I command thee! By the Holy Light of Terra, the shadows shall be banished!'

Demartha lifted the seal hammer high while Janns placed the wafer and red wax upon the casing of the engine block. The hammer looked impossibly heavy for her frail arm, clutched in wrinkled, heavy-knuckled fingers, but thirty years of toil had given her sinews as strong as the wire cables that held up the sigil of Terramars that hung from the low ceiling of the engineshrine.

'By thy life are we motivated. By thy energy are we fed. By thy function are we given purpose,' the young man helping Demartha intoned earnestly. His hand shook a little at this momentous occasion. A dozen faces regarded him closely from beyond the open lock-way, eager to see Janns finish his first Ignitiation as official Novapropulsor of the Undowno family.

Demartha shared neither excitement nor concern. He was the third of her line she had chosen to succeed her as the Engineward. If the Emperor saw fit he would be the last, and not be swept up in the Astra Militarum lottery-draft like his cousin and older brother.

'You're doing fine, boy,' she whispered.

He was six years old - as the slow orbit of Orestes counted it - on this day of his ascension to adulthood. It was more than a rite of passage; it was an essential ceremony for the future of the Undowno. If Demartha perished before she could pass on her knowledge to another, the family would have no Engineward. The Undowno would be forced to intermarry another harvester family and the name would be lost forever, a tragedy after seventy generations of loyal service to the Lord of the Throne and the Moon-nobles.

'In this knell rings the voice of Our Lord, commanding thee to potency!' Demartha yelled, bringing the hammer down onto the soft wax and parchment strip. The engine casing, to which the seal of the Undowno crest was firmly attached, reverberated with a deep note. Before the vibrations faded, Demartha pointed to the large red switch beside Janns.

'Now! Do it during the note of awakening!'

Janns reached out and pushed the switch down with a loud click. A stuttering growl emanated from within the casing. Demartha held her breath and could see tension etched into the face of her grandson. Daughters, sons, nephews and nieces all looked on from the outer shrine with expressions of expectation and apprehension.

'Upon the choking of the spirit, one must release the potency of the Sun-Emperor's benevolence from within the carriage of the spark,' Demartha told Janns quickly. He knew what to do and was already reaching for the dial below the switch. The original markings had long been lost, replaced by carefully painted symbols at four cardinal points denoting Non, Idle, Actual and Maxima. Janns twisted the dial to Actual.

'By His Light we are given strength,' the youth said proudly as the engine growl became more of a loud purr, vibrating through the floor of the engineshrine. The rest of the family let out laughs and brief applause. The lumen above flickered into yellow life, as did the lights in the shrine room where the family members retreated with sighs of relief and grateful looks.

Demartha laid a hand on Janns', her weather-beaten skin dark and pocked.

'Well done.' She patted his hand and then turned it palm up, for him to pull her from her painful crouch. Muscles and bones protesting, Demartha gained her feet. She hung the seal hammer on its hook above the engine block, transferring a kiss from her lips to its handle with two fingers.

'You don't need to do that,' she said to him with a smile, 'that's just my little thanks.'

All the same, Janns kissed his fingers and laid them upon the hammer.

'Time for morning prayers, Moma,' he said, stepping towards the door.

'Not Moma now, young man. Mysteress Engine to you.'

'Sorry, Mysteress Engine,' said Janns, pulling his thumb across his chest, indicating he would bleed his heart for her - a gesture of apology and love. She kissed the proffered hand in acceptance and then led him out of the engineshrine.

The outer shrine was large enough to accommodate up to thirty members of the family, though the Undowno only numbered twenty-one at that time, of which three were absent, ministering to other duties in the chambers above. The walls gleamed with exposed metals, gears quietly churning along with each other, the rattle of chains and clank of hidden pistons accompanied by the smell of the blessed lubricants they picked up from the supply dirigible three times a year. The younger members of the family, Little Kats and Nabbi, lifted ladles of thin oil to the lubricant feed funnels, saying their prayers with soft, stilted voices. The newest addition, Hasi, slept in a sling across his mother's chest, one finger pushed between his pouting lips, the sound of his sucking lost in the background rumble.

Namm, the Voice, moved to her spot beside the great shuttered window that made up one wall of the shrine while the others arranged themselves before her. She took out the much-thumbed Book of Thanks from the pocket of her embroidered apron - stitched by every Voice for the last five generations with symbols of the Thronemaster, such as Sun, Eagle and the Seeing Eye.

'On this day of Janns' ascension to adulthood, we have special prayers,' the Voice told them with a smile, looking at the lines of neat script in her book. In front of her, sat cross-legged, her apprentice Mani waited with ink and stylus, ready to copy out her own Book of Thanks. Her fingers were already turning blue from the ink stains, and in time both hands would be a deep cerulean like those of her mistress.

Before Namm could continue, a harsh bell ring sounded out. Everybody flinched, startled by the sudden noise. Normally the bell signalled wake, fast-end, toil and sup-time, and occasionally was rung three times to announce the arrival of a messenger-glider or trade blimp. Now it clanged without cease, filling the shrine room with a din that sent the oldest family members dashing for the spiral steps leading up into the main floor.

Aided by Janns, Demartha followed behind two of her sons and a daughter, pushing herself up the worn metal steps with a grimace. The wind tousled her thinning grey hair as she stepped out onto the deck behind the control cabin, feeling the warmth of the early morning sun on her skin. The rumble of the engines was clearer out here, and she could feel the immense tracks churning beneath her, becoming aware of their motion now that she could see the near-endless stretch of russet-coloured cereal fields reaching to the horizon in every direction. To the east, the crop was cut down almost to the ground by the vehicle's previous passing, as it was behind the sixty-yard-wide mega-harvester, along with a carpet of severed stems. Ahead, grasses ten feet tall disappeared into the whirring blades of the slash-thresher, spewed into three immense hoppers that made up the bulk of the harvester at the rear, each capable of holding five hundred tons of separated grain.

Her eldest son Ajacks, the Steerwarden, was at the top of the short stair to the control cabin, standing in the doorway where the bell was hung. He stopped his ringing and pointed ahead to the distant grey bulk of the exchange station.

A column of thick black smoke smudged the sky above it.

Sergeant Vayoz checked the positional relay on his combat bike again. The Primaris Ultramarine would have sworn by the honour of the primarch that he had been driving a straight course for the last twenty minutes, but once again it seemed he had veered almost two points to the west. It had to be an issue with the tracking on his bike or a poor connection in his helm-compass. Bringing the roaring mechanical beast to a stop, he found himself surrounded by nothing but hewn grass stems and churned mud.

There were few landmarks on Orestes with which to navigate, but the immense cables-and-carriages array of the orbital lifting site was one that could be seen from dozens of miles away, stretching into the upper heavens. The ground to the north was thousands of square miles of flat cropland, dominated by a dark red cereal exported under the designation Orescorn-type 2. The land itself had been artificially flattened by some past generation so that not a hill, dip or river marred the gentle curve of the planet. Waterways were all broad canals cut at sea level, impossible to see until one was right upon them, while most of the immense storage bays used to collate the product of the mega-harvesters were constructed underground - the light-drenched surface was too precious to use for warehousing except at a few collection sites like the orbital elevators.

'Heat surge and atmospheric pollution detected in grid seven, brother-sergeant,' reported Brother Perasius.

It took a couple of seconds for Vayoz to orientate himself and locate grid seven. He turned his gaze left, to the west, and saw a dark smudge in the distance. Smoke. Magnifying his auto-senses he located the source.

'Bulk transfer station, brothers,' he transmitted to his two outrider squad companions. The sunlight glinted on silver bodies moving around the low building that led down into the storage vats. Though he could not make out the details, it had to be the necrons. 'Enemy on-site.'

'Confirmed, brother-sergeant,' replied Brother Verenus, the closest of the three. 'Infantry detected. No heavier troops sighted.'

Vayoz consulted the schematic on the screen of his combat bike, his gauntleted fingers manipulating the controls to zoom out the map until all three blink rune marks of his squad were visible. They were each five miles apart, spread out on full scout formation to detect the enemy. Two other outrider squads were patrolling to the north-west and south-east, at least twenty miles away. All of the gunships were taking part in the orbital action and Vayoz's remaining battle-brothers on the surface were almost sixty miles behind him.

'It is just us, brothers,' he told Verenus and Perasius. 'All other forces committed.'

'Understood, brother-sergeant. Do you want me to investigate more fully?' asked Verenus.

Vayoz scrolled the map to his companion's location and brought up topographical details. He was only a mile from one of the few access roads that criss-crossed the nation-sized farms of Orestes. Judging from earlier scans from orbit, the xenos were all over the planet, scattered but gathering into more dangerous groups. It was likely this raiding party had travelled along the road from the north-west. Their ongoing route would eventually take them to the main Ultramarines defence at the lifting facility.

'Negative. We will intercept in force. Hold position and monitor. If they leave, keep your distance. Perasius and I will rendezvous at your location as swiftly as possible.'

'Acknowledged, brother-sergeant,' both Primaris Marines replied in unison.

'Surface command, this is Sergeant Vayoz, Squadron Absolute. Investigating enemy presence. Expecting to engage and eliminate. Confirmatory data-packet attached. No further orders required.'

He transmitted the signal and then gunned the engine of the bike, the rear wheel kicking up dirt and broken chaff as he sped away.

An attack on a waystation was not entirely without precedent, though the last one Demartha could remember had been in her middle years, when she was fifteen or so. There were groups of dispossessed families in the foothills to the south, where the more natural land gave them places to hide. Called reapers, they would sometimes raid a family for supplies, or seize a harvester for ransom. But that was a matter for the families and their noble masters, of no concern to the Ones Above. Only occasionally would the reapers mess with the upper supply chain. Doing so risked bringing down the wrath of the Imperial commander, He that Watches. Any significant interruption to the tithe was a capital crime, followed by merciless and swift military response.

The older family members scattered to their positions, manning harpoon launchers on the forward overblade gantries and the flank booms, while Jerred, oldest of her grandchildren at nine years, readied the prized gattler on a turntable above the drive cabin.

'Why now?' growled Ajacks when Demartha joined him in the chamber. His shoulders were slumped, expression pinched as he crossed to the panel of gauges and controls for the mega-harvester's drive and cutting systems. A heavily scratched plastek window protected them from flurries of sharp churn flung up by the forward rotary cutters, the periodic assault like the patter of spring rain. Through the damaged sheet Demartha could see the fire, claiming the entry port to the underground storage hall.

'Buck up,' she told her son, elbowing him in the side as she saw him staring glumly ahead. 'Not our run yet.'

The mega-harvester was on a pre-determined route, laid down many generations past. It tracked back and forth across the expanse, stopping off at the waystation to unload full hoppers. Its current run would take it past the station by about a hundred yards, and on for twenty miles more. By the time they turned and came back, the situation would be under control.

'Them that did it could still be about,' grumbled Ajacks. He sighed. 'Why'd they burn it?'

'Don't know, son. Mistake, perhaps, fighting the commander's shooters.'

'Should we offload the youngsters?'

Demartha stepped back to the doorway and looked down at the children who had come up, along with Hasi's mother. It was possible to set up camp and wait for the mega-harvester to come back on its return leg in a few days' time.

'Get the tents up from the bays, but we'll not put them off just yet. How about we send Kedda on to see what's happened?'

'Too close to make a difference, I figure.' Ajacks scratched at a stubbled cheek. 'Not worth braking, right?'

Demartha didn't dignify the question with an answer. There was little short of actual invasion or an asteroid fall that would convince her they needed to stop the mega-harvester. The risk of it not starting again, the acrimony from the allied families, the risk of delaying the tithe... No, that was to be avoided if possible.

'Someone's coming!' came the shout from Dougi at the right-hand bow harpoon. Demartha could just about see him through the windscreen, pointing to something ahead.

She left, Ajacks taking a couple of seconds just to check the readouts before following. Using the wire handhold, the two of them made their way around the side of the cabin, over the thrumming links of the four-yard-wide running tracks. Looking down between the metal slats of the walkway, Demartha saw the flank of the main hull was thick with dried mud.

'Gonna need to scrape that off,' she told her son, who answered with a nod.

They reached the overblades where Dougi was waiting. He pointed again, at something flashing in the long cereal almost straight ahead, about thirty yards away.

'Idiot, standing in the way like that,' said Dougi.

'Haul off, you fool!' shouted Ajacks, hands cupped around his mouth. 'Clear the way there!'

Demartha squinted. Her eyes were not as good as they used to be - one of the reasons she needed Janns to finish learning his rites. It looked like something silver in the growth, like a steel statue.

'Father of the Throne!' bellowed Ajacks as the thing stepped into the gap between two cereal rows. It looked like a skeleton, but fashioned from bright, silvery metal. It held some kind of gun in its hands, the barrel of which gleamed with jade light.

'Don't blaspheme.' Demartha hit her son on the arm.

'Watch out!' Dougi let go of the harpoon launcher and threw himself at his grandmother as the skeletal being raised the weapon. A beam of emerald light sprang out, hitting the young man in the shoulder.

His cry died almost instantly, his body falling to nothing, like chaff dust in a strong wind. Demartha hit the walkway hard, her left arm under her. It felt like the limb split from wrist to shoulder, bringing a spasm of pain that wrenched a cry from her throat. As she rolled her weight off it, Demartha could feel fractured bone digging into the flesh of her forearm. She could not look at it, eyes fixed on the silver apparition.

A spear sailed out from the harpoon launcher on the left while Ajacks jumped to the weapon Dougi had vacated. The fired harpoon slammed into the dirt short of its target. Another beam of green death sprang from the advancing skeleton, scoring a perfectly straight line through the hull just beside Ajacks. He pulled the lever of his mounted weapon and the jagged-tipped shaft sped out with a clank of released springs. It hit their attacker square in the chest, knocking it sideways and down.

Demartha pulled herself up by her good elbow, damaged arm across her chest, while Ajacks tore another harpoon from the rack beside the launcher. Fitting it, he grabbed the spring jack in both hands, one foot braced forward as he increased the torsion.

The Engineward saw the skeleton pushing itself slowly to its feet. The sudden ear-drumming thunder of the gattler opening fire accompanied a swift blur of projectiles, many of them ripping through the cereal to either side, a few striking the torso and shoulder of the apparition. Its arm hung limply for a moment, emerald-gleaming weapon dangling from its grasp.

Then it disappeared beneath the autoblades. Metal screeches followed, along with the squeal of protesting thresh rollers. Demartha could follow the progress of the skeleton through the works by the howling of separator discs behind her. With Ajacks and a few others, they hurried along the length of the mega-harvester. Crossing the gantry over the ejection ports, she saw a scattering of metal parts and a half-intact ribcage come flying out, followed by broken limb pieces and a heavily gashed skull.

Demartha mimicked raking two fingers down her cheek, signalling the facial wounds often suffered by those that stood unprotected near the rear ejectors. A sign for an ignorant off-worlder, or incompetent local.

Despite having bested the strange automaton, Demartha felt a coldness settling in her, not just from the shock of her injury. Looking at the dismembered creature gave her a deep sense of foreboding, and she remembered the ease with which the beam weapon had disintegrated poor Dougi. The pain in her arm was nothing to the ache in her chest as she remembered her nephew's sacrifice.

'Best put off the little ones,' she told Ajacks quietly, holding back tears. 'And keep watch. Bound to be more about.'

The station was full ablaze, fuelled by tons of dried grain below the surface. The growing heat was enough to disrupt the auto-senses in Vayoz's armour, but the necron warriors were clear to see coming along the road, six of them advancing in loose formation about half a mile away. The sergeant turned to his companions on his left, each astride a bulky combat bike, the air shimmering with engine heat around them, the engines of their machines grumbling idle.

'No other targets on the broad scan,' he said. 'Three against six. We would have taken down more, but the roadway cuts down on our approaches.'

The rockcrete strip was nearly forty yards wide, large enough for the bulk transporters to gather the harvest and take it back to the lifting station.

'Suggest we split and attack with crossfire, minimising retaliation. Three passes should do it,' said Verenus.

'I concur, brother,' said Perasius. 'In the open, slow moving. This should be target practice.'

'Beware of overconfidence, brothers. Even so, I agree. Perasius, flank far left. I'll take near left. Verenus on the right. One pass with bike-mounted only. Second pass with bolts and then close for melee. Understood?'

'Yes, brother-sergeant,' said Perasius, drawing his chainsword to lift it in salute. He revved the bike's engine.

'Affirmative, brother-sergeant.' Verenus kept both handlebars in his grip, thumb resting on the firing stud of the front-mounted bolters.

The sergeant said nothing more, and the three quickly accelerated. Turning into the crop again, cereal whipped at Vayoz's bike and armour, leaving a trail of flattened stems and clouds of seeds in his wake. At full growth the cereal was taller than he was, but the enemy position was fixed on his bike monitor while the transponders from his battle-brothers showed them curving away towards their attack vectors. It took less than two minutes to get into position, the three bikers pointed towards the xenos, their interlinking fire corridors directed at the enemy but not each other.

Vayoz waited a few more seconds to allow Perasius to move further around into perfect position.

'Distance to enemy, eight hundred yards,' the Ultramarine reported, his transponder slowing to a stop on the screen.

'Acknowledged. Squad Absolute, attack order given. First pass.'

Unleashing the full power of the bike's massive engine, Vayoz and his mount leapt forward, the cereal streaming past like a constant wall of dark red in his vision. He looked at the telemetric mark in his auto-senses, relayed from the bike's navigational unit, and then recalled the slight drift he had encountered before. He adjusted his route by just a few inches to compensate.

The rangefinder sprang into life at five hundred yards, maximum effective range of the bolters. There was still nothing to see ahead, the necrons obscured by the tall crop. At four hundred yards, he armed the mounted weapons, releasing the trigger stud on the right side handlebar. At two hundred and fifty, he had his thumb in position, still focused on the juddering reticule over his left eye.

'Free to fire,' he announced to his brothers at two hundred yards.

At one hundred, just as Perasius and Verenus reached optimal range, he pushed the firing stud. Bolts flared from the two bolters in front of him, their trails igniting the corn with their passage. He heard rather than saw the crump of detonations, until a few seconds later he burst out of the field and onto the road, pointing directly at the necron warriors. Streams of fire converged from the left and right, slamming into the skeletal xenos. Three fell, broken apart before they vanished into nothing; another two were staggered, their return fire way off target. A far better result than the sergeant had expected.

'Revised plan, close combat immediate!' snapped Vayoz. He dragged up his chainsword in his left hand, the toothed blade snarling into life as he tightened his grip on the reactive haft.

The sixth xenos opened fire, the beam of its rifle slicing towards Perasius. The outrider leapt from his bike at the same instant the beam struck, consuming the machine with an emerald glow. Perasius hit the ground with a thunderous clatter, bouncing some distance before rolling to his feet, chainsword and bolt pistol in his hands, and sprinting towards the foe.

Verenus reached the necrons a couple of seconds before Vayoz, firing the bike-mounts until the last moment. Wracked with bolt detonations, the Primaris Marine's target was still reeling as the chainsword bit home, chewing across a silvered ribcage in a slew of sparks and metallic splinters.

Vayoz had no more time to admire his companion's bladework. His own foe stood square-on to the onrushing bike, oblivious to the bolt rounds sparking off its artificial body. The alien skeleton brought up its rifle, but too slow to fire before the lead wheel of Vayoz's mount slammed into the creature. The bike bucked under him, forcing him to maglock the weapon in place to grab the handlebars in both hands; the teeth ceased their whirring the moment he released the handle.

The back wheel skidded sideways across the necron's remains, the sudden sheering movement almost throwing Vayoz from the saddle. He activated the brakes, screeching the bike nearly sideways across the ferrocrete road, a black strip of burnt tyre left in his wake. The crushed necron faded from view, scattered parts seeming to melt into the roadway.

Bolt reports behind Vayoz announced the arrival of Perasius, while Verenus circled his bike for a second pass. The click of metal on ferrocrete and a proximity warning blared by his suit told of a foe just behind the sergeant. He flicked the chainsword back into his grip and swung as he turned, smashing the still-accelerating titanium teeth into the necron warrior as it raised its rifle over its head like a club. The alien recoiled, bleeding jade energy from the wound, straight into the path of Verenus, who gunned down the xenos with two short bursts of fire, his bike roaring through the dissipating mist as its remains teleported away.

A throaty bellow from Perasius, accompanied by a crunch of chainsword into an unliving enemy, announced the demise of the last foe. Vayoz turned his head to the right and saw the Primaris Marine hewing at thin air where his foe had been, snarling.

'Brother?' The sergeant spoke quietly, his voice cutting through the fury gripping his fellow outrider.

'Cursed xenos destroyed my bike,' the Space Marine grunted, his hands dropping to his sides, shoulders slumping.

Verenus pulled alongside and slapped the casing behind him. With a sigh, Perasius pulled himself up by the seat back, one foot on each of the exhaust casings either side of the rear wheel.

Vayoz was just pondering a humorous remark when the augur of his mount bleeped into life, showing an incoming enemy signal a few miles to the north, approaching fast.

The buzz of the runaround's motor was barely audible over the deeper rumble of the mega-harvester. Its wheels scraped up the docking ramp that bumped alongside the right track housing, allowing Kedda to drive right up into the garage section. In the flatbed of the runaround, pieces of silvery metal glinted in the light of the lumen as the ramp retracted and the side door whined shut.

Demartha scowled at the pieces, one arm tied in a sling across her chest. Beside her, Caistlin, Dougi's widow, cried fitfully.

'Nothing of him,' the woman whispered between choking sobs. 'No return to the land for my poor Dougi. No holy mulching for him.'

'Dunno what it is. Never seen its like,' said Kedda as he hauled out a piece of arm and half a ribcage. He tossed them into the corner of the garage and started piling on other pieces. 'Some sort of off-worlder weapon maybe? Pretty sophisticated for reapers.'

'Ain't a reaper-thing,' growled Demartha. 'I reckon its some warmaker from the Ones Above. Might be lost, or stolen. Or escaped...'

'Gonna be worth something,' said Kedda. 'We'll show it to Maxosu when we get to Station Four.'

'Ain't worth Dougi,' muttered Demartha, putting her good arm around Caistlin and taking her through the door into the adjoining shrine room.

* * *

There were three signals on the display, but Vayoz did not need the augur to pick out the three skimming attackers speeding over the cereal field towards the outriders. They had encountered their like in ones and twos, and had lost Brother Denetian to their heavy beam weapons. With Verenus and Perasius riding double there was no way to outrun the fast attack craft. With the cargo station ablaze there was no cover either.

'Sergeant, picking up thermal source just five hundred yards away,' reported Verenus.

'A building?' said Perasius, looking over his battle-brother's shoulder.

'It's moving,' replied Vayoz. 'A mega-harvester.'

He needed to issue no command; the two bikers turned towards the signal in unison, the swathe of flattened crops in their wake curving behind them as they turned southward. Looking ahead, Vayoz could just about make out the high red flanks of the massive machine between the whipping cereals that stretched above him. Five hundred yards was no distance at all, but the necron skimmers were closing fast.

For the second time that day, Ajacks let free the clamour of the warning bell, interrupting the memorial service for Dougi that Namm had been conducting in the shrine room. The great window had been unshuttered, revealing the vast expanse of red cereal. Demartha peered out while the others all made their way back up to the deck. There was something smudging the sky in the distance - like flies, but further away and larger. Her eyes were still keen enough that she could make out movement amongst the crop, two parallel lines flattening towards the mega-harvester.

'What are you?' she whispered to herself.

Responding to Vayoz's hails on the external address, the megaharvester's crew lowered their docking ramp. Vayoz led the way, riding up the ramp to stop his bike at the top. It was quicker to leap up to the rail that edged the main deck above than make his way through the chambers within, and so he pulled himself up and vaulted over. From a position above the main cab a crude rotary cannon opened fire, blazing shells inaccurately towards the rapidly approaching necrons.

'Verenus, take the gun,' snapped the sergeant, pointing as the other two Primaris Marines climbed up the side of the harvester to join him. The crowd of half-terrified, half-awe-stricken civilians parted before the Space Marines.

There was no time to get the people out of the way. A green beam streaked down from one of the flying necron creatures, obliterating a woman just to Vayoz's right. He turned and opened fire with his bolt pistol, its boom eliciting shrieks and shouts from the people around him.

Verenus had gained the rotary cannon as Perasius added his bolts to his sergeant's fire. A pinpoint accurate fusillade streamed from the heavy weapon, stitching impacts across the closest of the centauroid automatons, cracking open the suspensor spheres that held it aloft. Beams of green light flashed from its twin-barrelled cannon as it spun groundward, passing harmlessly over the mega-harvester. It vanished into green energy before it impacted the side of the machine. Combined fire from Vayoz and Perasius forced the second to break off its attack run, curving away trailing jade sparks. The third opened fire, vaporising a woman pulling herself up the steps towards the driving cab. A second stab of green energy sliced through the deck just a few feet to Vayoz's left, wide of its mark.

The skimmer screamed overhead, but Verenus was not going to let it get away for a second pass. The Primaris Marine leapt from the gun tower, slamming into the side of the skimming necron as it flew by. One finger gripping a flailing skeletal arm, he drew his chainsword and slammed the snarling blade into the creature's head. Unbalanced by the additional weight, the necron rolled over and dipped, smashing Verenus into the superstructure of the track housing as he dangled by one hand. The Space Marine tumbled from view, as did the necron. A second later, a flash of jade light betrayed the necron teleporting away in its demise.

'Verenus?' barked Vayoz, dashing through the parting civilians to where the Primaris Marine had disappeared over the side.

'Alive, brother,' the outrider reported. 'Though I think my hip is dislocated.'

Reaching the track housing, Vayoz saw Verenus lying in a swathe of flattened cereal, his leg at an awkward angle.

'Praise the Thronelord for His Angels!'

Vayoz turned to find the man who had been at the drive controls approaching, eyes wide with wonder, arms outstretched.

'See how the accursed melt before their ire!'

'A feature of these xenos,' Vayoz told him. He searched the sky for the third damaged necron but saw no sign of it. 'They disincorporate when fatally threatened. Gratitude for the sanctuary you gave us, and my condolences for your losses.'

'We ourselves slew one of their number,' the man said proudly, waving a hand towards some of the others, who were gathering closer, their curiosity outweighing their apprehension. 'We have its remains below.'

Through a chorus of thanks and praises, the man's words sank in.

'Remains?' Vayoz loomed over the man. 'What remains? Necrons do not leave remains unless they are still able to self-repair...'

Demartha heard the scrape of metal before she felt the buzz of static on the hair along her arms. She turned and the sight ripped the breath from her body.

The skeletal machine leaned against the jamb of the door, halfmade. One leg ended at the knee and it possessed only its right arm, but its skull was intact and the eye sockets gleamed with malevolent green light. It lunged forward, falling to the floor as it grasped for the old woman. Its clumsy attack had taken it between her and the steps, cutting her off from the deck.

Demartha ran for the door to the engineshrine, but after only two steps, felt cold metal close around her ankle. She fell, a yell torn from her as she landed hard on her broken arm. Inhuman fingers tightened on her boot but she pulled hard before the grip was complete, wrenching her foot from within. Rolling, more pain flaring up into her shoulder, she managed to get to her feet and stumble over the threshold of the engineshrine.

She fell against the main block, wincing, gasping. Turning, Demartha swung the door closed, eyes already moving towards the drop-lever that would secure it in place.

The door clanged against something instead of the frame; a skeletal metal arm scrabbled through the gap between door and wall. Howling, pushing through the fire in her arm, Demartha grabbed the door in both hands and tried to slam it shut, banging it against the wrist of the thing hunting her. It jarred her whole body and she let go, staggering back. With a metallic thud, her attacker's skull banged into the door, opening it wider as the skeleton pushed itself along the floor with its good leg.

'Our Lord on Terra, give me thy strength.' Demartha felt something dig into her shoulder as she backed away.

The seal hammer.

Her fingers closed around the metal handle and she swung with everything she had left. The seal-head connected with the cheek of the hideous skeleton, smashing its head sideways, cracking it against the edge of the door as it tried to push past. Grasping fingers found her skirt as the creature recovered. She swung again, leaving an imprint of the family crest in the temple of the monstrosity. It faltered at the second blow, grip falling away from the pleat it had been holding.

Something immense and blue appeared at the doorway, accompanied by a machine-snarl and thunderous tread. An instant later the engineshrine was filled with the ear-splitting shriek of tearing metal.

A second later the skeleton disappeared, falling to nothingness.

Demartha looked up into the helm-masked face of an armoured giant, his head tilted to one side beneath the ceiling of the shrine room. She had no idea how her saviour had come to be there. His presence was overwhelming, as was her relief at being spared.

'Praise the Emperor,' Demartha croaked, falling to her knees. She cradled the seal hammer in her lap. 'Praise the Emperor.'

INTRODUCTION

Indomitus Limited Edition

It's hard to write Space Marines.

Okay, it's not hard to write Space Marines in itself, but it is a challenge to write Space Marines whose portrayal stays true to all of the extant background material, whilst also creating characters and storylines that are appealing to the readers of short stories and novels.

They are, more or less, warrior monks with minimal interest in anything other than killing for the Emperor. This idea draws heavily from the Knights Templar and other crusading orders of history, with a nice splash of superhuman genetic enhancement thrown in. As a unit, as an organisation, they are also hyper-efficient, not only from training but also thanks to decades of experience. They shouldn't really chatter. They barely have to speak to one another because their combat doctrines are so ingrained they fight as a fluid whole. There is very little in terms of personal threat or interpersonal conflict on which to hang a story.

So, how do we do it? For a start, there are different ways of presenting the Space Marines themselves. One can look at them from up-close but from a civilian's perspective, as in Aaron Dembski-Bowden's Spear of the Emperor. Alternatively, one can go fully mythic as Dan Abnett does in Brothers of the Snake.

For the most part, though, we have a close perspective, third-person narration. It's arguably the most popular storytelling style. In order to make Space Marines successful characters for prose, we need to do two things. Firstly, we need to non-standardise, and secondly, we need to embrace exceptionalism.

On the first account, despite the selection process, rigorous hypno-doctrination and overbearing training regime, there is no such thing as a typical Space Marine. While nearly every element of their past life is erased, the first twelve to fourteen years of someone's foundational personality doesn't simply disappear. Bits of it will creep through over time. It's why some Space Marines are better off with a pistol and a chainsword and others prefer a big lascannon. They are not clones. Small differences exist.

And those differences matter, because growing up in a Neolithic tribe on a desert world is a galaxy away from being an underhive gang juve, or a squire to a techno-knight on a feudal-run orbital platform. All harsh, martial traditions from which the Space Marines recruit, yet with very disparate environments and cultural structures affecting early personal development.

As well as this, there is the matter of the Chapter cults. These traditions and teachings are the lens through which the personality of the Space Marine will express itself. Some Chapters tend towards homogeneity, while others value more individualism. This in itself is a trait. Codex adherence among the Ultramarines is unremarkable, except that there is no one definition of what Codex adherence actually means. Even with the return of Roboute Guilliman, the great work of the Codex Astartes is open to interpretation because he meant it to be a guide not a rulebook. It's not as if he can tour the galaxy running small tutorial groups for the tens of thousands of Space Marines that follow his doctrines.

This means that a Space Marine from the Blood Angels does not see the universe in the same way as a Space Wolf, or an Iron Hand, or... Even among Codex-compliant Chapters, thousands of years of cultural deviation and recruitment practices have created divergent

Chapter traits. White Consuls are not photocopies of Ultramarines, Consecrators are not simply knock-off Dark Angels.

Sometimes we get to explore those differences very directly, such as when Space Marines come together in Deathwatch by Steve Parker, or as Guy Haley has shown us in his Blood Angels novels, when successor Chapters join with their primogenitors.

But for the most part, we create stories about Space Marines from a single Chapter. In these circumstances, understanding the Chapter cult is not about the differences with other Chapters but seeing in what ways that overarching Chapter identity can be fractured into individual characters. By doing this we start to create differences that allow for interpersonal relationships that aren't just about whether someone advances to the left or right. In such organisations, small areas of friction are enough to create narrative conflict. Space Marines don't have to come to blows to express disunity - in fact, in many ways, that wouldn't be as engaging to read because it's un-Space Marine-like behaviour.

So they subtly chastise or mock, disagree when not in combat or develop rivalries for honours or titles. They are family, bound by bloodshed, and like families they infight except when presented with an external threat.

In terms of non-standardisation, it is fairly common practice in writing to have an outsider protagonist, especially in genre fiction. Their exceptionalism is why we are telling their story, and their perspective gives us an opportunity to explore their surroundings from an exterior context. This is equally true of Space Marines - picking characters that might be a little outside the norm because they have the stories worth telling.

We've dealt with Space Marines in different ways in the past, particularly in terms of how they act in the forty-first millennium compared to the Space Marines of the Horus Heresy. With the arrival of the Primaris Marines we have a fresh opportunity to explore what it means to be a Space Marine, what those Chapter cults represent and, through the Indomitus Crusade, how the Space Marines fit alongside the broader Imperium. The formational years for the first Primaris Marines were very different to those of Space Marines raised in Chapters with ten thousand years of tradition, and even without putting the two groups into direct contrast with each other, these differences give us a texture to work with when creating our characters.

The Space Marines who feature in novels are probably a little bit more human and relatable than they probably should be, if we were pedantically obsessed with a 'true' presentation. The truth is that stories are not always reality, even when representing a fictional universe. Stories are a stylised representation that have been manipulated to create a good tale, and that sometimes includes the people within it.

Which is all writers really want to do - spin a good tale. I hope you enjoy this one.

Gav Thorpe

Nottingham

December 2019

About the Author

Gav Thorpe is the author of the Horus Heresy novels The First Wall, 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 recently wrote the Age of Sigmar novel The Red Feast. 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 Indomitus.

‘They shall be pure of heart and strong of body, untainted by doubt and unsullied by self-aggrandisement.’ Praxamedes had spoken without thought, the words of the Codex Astartes coming to him unbidden and reaching his tongue before he could stop them.

‘Is that censure of a senior officer, Lieutenant Praxamedes?’ asked Aeschelus as he looked away from the command bridge’s main viewing display. The Ultramarines captain paced across the strategium of the Ithraca’s Vengeance, heading to where his second-in-command stood alongside the task force’s other lieutenant, Nemetus.

The polished blue of their armour danced with the amber-and-red glow of console lights, smudged by a bright plasma gleam shining from the tactical videolith that dominated the wall of the large command chamber. Tac-slaved servitors wired to terminals and augur banks grunted and chattered their dataflows to azure-robed overseers, who in turn compiled reports for their Space Marine officers. Behind them, Shipmaster Oryk Oloris, in heavy trousers that were tucked into knee-high boots and a crisp white shirt beneath his Ultramarines uniform tunic, prowled the deck with a watchful eye.

Praxamedes instantly regretted his momentary lapse.

‘As a scholar of the lord primarch’s teachings, you would know that the Codex Astartes has much to say on respect for the chain of command.’ Aeschelus came alongside his two officers and half-turned back towards the main screen. He opened his hand towards the screen, indicating the starship that drifted across the spray of stars, plumes of blue and white plasma ejecting haphazardly from a ruptured reactor. ‘Our preliminary surveyor reports indicate that we have disabled their weapons grid. The threat is minimal.’

‘My words, brother-captain, were in reference to Nemetus’ overly keen desire to lead the boarding,’ Praxamedes told his superior. ‘There are still enemy vessels in the vicinity.’

‘Two destroyers,’ scoffed Nemetus. ‘Too fast a prey to hunt on our own. As soon as we give chase, they will disappear into the asteroids and gas clouds on the boundary of the third orbital sphere. Would you follow them into that, knowing that they could turn on us under the cover of our overwhelmed scanners?’

‘That was not my suggestion, brother-lieutenant,’ said Praxamedes, frowning. It was an occasional fault of Nemetus to protest against an ill-thought strategy that had not, in fact, been raised, perhaps purely to show that he had considered and discarded such action himself. ‘Our primary objective is destruction of the enemy. Boarding brings unnecessary risk, at a time when the battle groups of Fleet Quintus must conserve their strength.’

‘That is a Hellbringer-class cruiser,’ added Nemetus. ‘Nobody has built one for eight thousand years. It is a piece of archeotech in its own right.’

‘The lord primarch would also favour heavily any intelligence we might glean from its cogitator banks,’ said Aeschelus. ‘We are at the forefront of the crusade, encountering foes fresh to the battle. This is a raider, an assault ship built for planetary attack. Perhaps this ship comes from beyond the Cicatrix Maledictum and could shed light on what is occurring in the Imperium Nihilus lost beyond the warp rifts.’

This time, Praxamedes was wise enough to hold his tongue, wishing the whole conversation would be forgotten. Aeschelus noticed his lieutenant’s reticence and continued.

‘You urge caution with a depleted resource, which is laudable, but I would not spend the lives of the lord primarch’s warriors needlessly.’ Aeschelus allowed his voice to travel a little further, carrying to other members of the command crew across the strategium. It was typical of Aeschelus’ fine touch of command that he would turn potential remonstration into a moment to inspire others. It was a knack that Praxamedes sorely lacked, nor had any idea how to acquire despite his efforts.

‘For near a decade, as ship-board chronometers reckon it, we have fought hard in the crusade of the lord primarch. At the outset there was treachery and catastrophe, losses suffered before the fleet had even left Terra. Our own task force lost its noble group master to the plague purges. Those here, and that came before, knew that there would be no easy victories, that a galaxy broken asunder by the witchery of our enemies would be an unwelcoming battlezone. Yet even the most pessimistic among us would not have countenanced the uncountable labours and obstacles that Fleet Quintus has found in its path.

‘Every victory has been hard-fought and we have met with more reverses than those in other fleets. Each foe must be overcome in turn – every opportunity to rise from the shadows of past setbacks must be seized. Before us lies a prize, won by our own endeavour, that may lift the fortunes of not just the Ithraca’s Vengeance or Battle Group Faustus, but perhaps bring heart to all of Crusade Fleet Quintus that our extraordinary travails have been to purpose.’

‘A prize that is even now trying to slip from our fingers,’ growled Nemetus, nodding towards the videolith. ‘See how they crawl towards the stellar flotsam, seeking sanctuary in its midst. We must seize the moment, brother-captain.’

‘And I stand ready to lead the attack, as always,’ said Praxamedes. ‘As the longest serving lieutenant it would be my honour to do so.’

‘I have no doubt that you would be determined and diligent in the execution of the attack, Praxamedes, but I think this operation is more suited to the temperament of Nemetus.’ The captain turned his full attention to the second lieutenant. ‘Assemble your boarding force swiftly. Take control of the enemy strategium and extract what you can from the cogitators.’

‘You’ll need charges, to scuttle the ship when you are done,’ said Praxamedes.

‘There will be no need for that,’ said Nemetus. ‘It looks as though their reactors are already descending towards critical state. A few hours from now there will be nothing left but plasma.’

‘All the more reason to fly swift and fight with narrow purpose,’ said Aeschelus.

‘If we’re set on the mission, I’ll review the augur data and calculate the approach vectors that will bring you most swiftly to your objective, brother.’ Praxamedes lifted a fist to his chest to salute the departing officer.

Nemetus returned the gesture of respect with a nod. ‘For the primarch and the Emperor.’

When the lieutenant had exited the strategium, Praxamedes turned to move towards the augur terminals. Aeschelus stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He spoke quietly.

‘I know that you think I undervalue you, Prax. I will give you battle command soon, I give you my word. It’s just…’

‘Nemetus is the more dynamic of us?’

‘Restless,’ Aeschelus replied. ‘Nemetus excels in direct action. In all truth, would you have him providing overview for the expedition while you were leading the squads? Is that truly the best use of his and your aptitudes?’

Praxamedes said nothing. He had spoken out too much already and did not wish to push his superior’s patience any further. In truth, he felt it was Aeschelus, in longing to prove his worth in the eyes of the primarch, that felt undervalued. Like many in the latest cohort of recruits pushed to the leading edges of the crusade, Aeschelus had not been in the fleet when those early disasters had occurred. He had not witnessed how the hope and excitement of the crusade’s potential had withered in a matter of months.

Perhaps that was a good thing. Praxamedes had enough self-awareness to admit, to himself if no other, that those early experiences had given him a more pessimistic outlook than his new commander. The captain hoped Nemetus would bring glory to the Ithraca’s Vengeance with some daring act, and Praxamedes was well aware of his own deficiencies in that regard. He was neither charismatic nor blessed with startling initiative. He was diligent and capable, and those were qualities that perhaps Battle Group Faustus needed right now when another serious setback might break the morale of the whole Fleet Quintus.

But Aeschelus was not interested in such thoughts and so Praxamedes kept them to himself.

‘As you will it, brother-captain,’ he said simply.

Aeschelus gave a nod of dismissal to set Praxamedes about his task, yet as the lieutenant moved away the captain felt the admonition in his formality. His second-in-command doubtless meant well but the last thing the command needed at the moment was negativity. There were finally reports of good news from the other battle groups, and while Faustus still laboured hard against warp storms and a ceaseless swarm of small but diverting traitor attacks, Aeschelus was determined that he would make a breakthrough soon.

Praxamedes tended to think in tactical terms, lacking the longer view of the strategic that had been inculcated into Aeschelus as part of his rapid training to the rank of captain. He and others like him had been despatched to the cutting edge of the Indomitus Crusade to bring some renewed urgency, particularly across Crusade Fleet Quintus.

Fresh blood, fresh energy.

Those had been the words of the lord primarch. Not heard in person, as Lord Guilliman was far from Terra leading the crusade when Aeschelus had been sent to his command. It wasn’t like the days when Praxamedes and the first torchbearer fleets had been sent out. No fanfare, no primarch. Just reinforcements and a renewed will to press into the darkness.

One day, perhaps soon, Aeschelus would have the honour. One day he would stand before the lord primarch in victory, recognised for an effort that changed the fortunes of the fleet.

The captain broke from his reverie to find Oloris standing close by, a dataslate in hand. The shipmaster raised a fist to his forehead.

‘Latest fleet dispositions, captain.’ The unaugmented human presented the dataslate and withdrew a step, brushing a wisp of blond hair from his pale face.

‘Anything of note?’ asked Aeschelus, knowing that Oloris could be trusted to review the information relevant to their current course of action.

‘We received word that Sword of Justice and the Vaputatian both broke warp to rendezvous with the support fleet.’

‘That leaves nobody on our starward flank. A little early for refit.’ Aeschelus scrolled through the report but Oloris provided the answer first.

‘They each had an unexpected encounter with a battleship-class enemy. They were able to break away but not before taking heavy damage.’

Aeschelus found the entry and accessed the engagement report. ‘No identifier. Possible traitor flagship. Heavy lance arrays outranged our ships.’

‘And us, captain,’ said Oloris. He hesitated, cleared his throat and continued, ‘Lieutenant Praxamedes wishes to know if we are proceeding with the boarding action.’

Aeschelus looked up. The lieutenant was at the augur console, ostensibly engaged in his preparations, though his enhanced hearing was more than capable of picking up the conversation between captain and shipmaster. It was protocol for any matters concerning the running of the vessel to come through the shipmaster, but it seemed peculiar on this occasion that Praxamedes had not delivered his question directly. It was likely that he was being more circumspect after his uncharacteristically outspoken moment.

‘You have concerns, Prax?’ the captain said, hoping informality would assure his subordinate that he was not in any way being censured. ‘You think there is a danger presented by this rogue battleship?’

‘It is a possibility, captain,’ said Praxamedes, turning from his work. ‘The engagement with the Sword of Justice took place within the last two days, only four hundred and fifty thousand miles from our current position. What if it’s the Desolator?’

‘I am surprised you put stock in such tales, lieutenant,’ said Aeschelus. He snorted, shaking his head. ‘The Desolator? Rumour and hearsay. The grumblings of reluctant Imperial Navy officers.’

‘You think there is no truth to the reports, captain?’ Praxamedes approached, darting a look towards Oloris that betrayed their conspiracy. ‘Seven vessels lost or driven off in the last thirty days, all within this sub-sector.’

‘There is no phantom enemy battleship striking with the speed of a frigate and disappearing.’ Aeschelus raised a finger to forestall Oloris as the shipmaster opened his mouth to speak. ‘And it certainly is not The Ninth Eye, that identification was based on the tiniest fragment of augur return and vox-scatter. Battle Group Command insist that there is no Alpha Legion presence in this whole sector. You want me to ignore the prize we have won based on the chattering of Navy officers?’

‘I wished to clarify our intent, captain,’ Praxamedes said stiffly. ‘Your will is clear.’

‘It is,’ growled Aeschelus, now irritated by the lieutenant’s intervention. ‘Ready your calculations for Lieutenant Nemetus as quickly as possible.’

Aeschelus turned his eyes back to the drifting ship on the main display. This equivocation and rumour-mongering was just one of the many symptoms of the fleet’s morale problems. He should not fault Praxamedes for falling prey to the same deficiencies as others caught up in the long tale of misfortune, but it was starting to affect his judgement. Despite his earlier words to the lieutenant, this kind of irrational behaviour, coupled with overfamiliarity to the non-Space Marine crew, made Aeschelus wonder if Praxamedes really was suited to any kind of battle command.

With the order for the boarding action given, the tone aboard the Ithraca’s Vengeance changed from one of pensive watchfulness to energetic activity. The crews of the gun decks remained alert, sensor stations poring over the broken flank of the heavy cruiser, seeking any sign of sudden life from their foe. From the command bridge came firing solutions, pinpointing breaches in the enemy’s armoured skin, selected to prepare the way for the incoming attack. In the flight bays the roar of plasma engines joined the thud of armoured boots, filling each launch deck with the noise of pending war. Red-clad tech-priests croaked and burbled sermons of the Machine-God to bless their charges before launch, lower adepts of the Cult of Mars anointing the gunships’ weapons and targeting arrays with unguents while nano-laced censer smoke drifted into idling intakes to cleanse engine feeds.

Squad by squad, the boarding parties assembled at the mustering deck between the two flanking launch halls. Nemetus paced the concourse at the hall’s centre, passing a critical eye over the thirty Space Marines as they came to attention. From the ship’s complement he had selected three squads of Intercessors, the backbone of the new Primaris formations. Standing to attention, weapons presented, an unmoving line of Ultramarines blue, they awaited the order to break rank and move to board the gunships.

Unsullied by self-aggrandisement.

The words of Praxamedes lingered in the thoughts of Nemetus while he readied himself for the battle ahead. Whether intended for Aeschelus or Nemetus, that softly spoken line from the Codex Astartes had carried the same vehemence as a shouted outburst from any other. Praxamedes was calm to the point of coolness and guarded in everything he said. To have spoken as he did was almost without precedent.

Helmet under his arm, Nemetus walked along the ranks, inspecting every warrior. Each was impeccably turned out, a credit to themselves and the dedication of the armourium. Sergeant Villina lifted fist to chest as Nemetus reached the front of the formation once more.

‘Most excellent, brother-sergeant, fit for a parade before the lord primarch himself!’

‘And ready for more than just a parade, brother-lieutenant,’ added the veteran sergeant.

‘I am sure of it, Villina. It is my honour to lead them again.’

The Codex Preparatory Statements on the Nature of the Adeptus Astartes continued, and it was from the following words of the lord primarch that Nemetus took inspiration.

They will be bright stars on the firmament of battle, Angels of Death whose shining wings bring swift annihilation to the enemies of man.

A bright star in the firmament of battle.

Bright stars were in short supply of late, with the Imperium beset by all foes, both ancient and modern. A relative latecomer to the Indomitus Crusade, Nemetus had learned from afar of its great reconquest whilst undergoing his transformation and training. He knew the power of the stories that returned from the exploits of humanity’s finest warriors. He had heard temple bells ringing the triumphs of the lord commander, listened to the cheers from hundreds of thousands of throats as great victories were read from the balcony-pulpits. As a Primaris Marine, he was to be the new exemplar of everything the Adeptus Astartes represented.

And yet the words of Praxamedes still bit deep.

Unsettled, he passed an expert eye over the next warriors – a squad of Eradicators, their melta rifles at the ready. They would be the breaching team once the expedition reached the enemy strategium. Nemetus’ gaze moved between them and the Intercessors, noting that most of their wargear was freshly issued.

Many of Aeschelus’ command had been sent as reinforcements to Fleet Quintus, as had he and Nemetus; only a few were longer-serving, having departed Terra at the crusade’s outset. Praxamedes was among those that had seen the earliest fighting, the most terrible wars and dogged campaigns. A member of Fleet Quintus since its inception, he had risen from the ranks while Nemetus and Aeschelus, and no few others, had been trained to their officer roles. Such had been the early casualties among the Space Marines – a force that lived by the creed of leading from the front – that deaths among the first Primaris officers had eliminated almost half the Adeptus Astartes leadership of Fleet Quintus within three years. Battlefield promotions and brevet ranks were good as a stop-gap, but as a longer term solution Nemetus and others had been command-trained from the outset of their inductions.

Was Praxamedes’ slight genuinely aimed at Aeschelus, a subtle admonition for a superior who had been promoted ahead of him?

That was an unkindness to Praxamedes, Nemetus decided. The very moments before battle were not the best time to weigh up the motivations of his brother-officers, and Nemetus had nothing but respect for his fellow lieutenant. Praxamedes had simply been urging his usual circumspect approach, nothing more.

Nemetus turned his attention to the remaining members of his expedition. A little apart from the Intercessors stood ten Incursors, two combat squads of dedicated close assault specialists under Sergeant Dorium and Sergeant Lato. Clad in armour incorporating the most sophisticated internal auspex systems, they would pave the way for the main force, their bolt carbines ideally suited to the closer confines of the enemy starship. It had been just days since they had last seen action, and their wargear told a different story to that of the Intercessors. Here and there the lieutenant spied bare ceramite over some recently suffered damage, and the paint of their livery was much scratched.

‘Is that blood?’ Nemetus demanded, directing an accusing finger towards the gauntlet of Brother Sennecus.

The Incursor lifted his hand and inspected it. He flexed the red-stained armoured digits.

‘Yes, lieutenant,’ Sennecus replied. ‘I ripped out the heart of a secessionist in our last engagement. The red mark is a trophy of our victory, brother-lieutenant.’

‘Yes, I have heard of this “battle paint”, brother.’ Nemetus took a step closer and was about to deliver his chastisement when a voice cut across the muster hall.

‘A fitting memorial to a traitor,’ rasped Judiciar Admonius.

Armoured all in back, the Judiciar cut a sinister figure. At his waist hung a great hourglass, filled with dark sand: his tempormortis. Each grain came from the debris of Callosi station, a renegade installation atomised in the first engagement of Battle Group Faustus. Admonius’ zealotry in that action had seen him recruited to the position of Judiciar, on the pathway to becoming a Chaplain.

The dedication that had drawn Admonius to the Reclusiam’s ranks had increased with his acceptance, as if he were afraid that his status as novice would count against him. Nemetus knew better than to gainsay the Judiciar and instead raised a fist in salute.

‘You are joining the boarding force, Brother-Judiciar?’

‘Of course. It is my duty to prosecute the war against the traitors with every fervour. Did you think I would pass on this opportunity?’

Recognising the rhetoric in the question, Nemetus returned his attention to the warriors under his command.

‘Brothers.’ He took a breath, trying to ignore the nagging thoughts that came to him.

Self-aggrandisement.

Was he guilty of that crime?

‘Brothers,’ he began again, taking inspiration from his own mood. ‘Some of you have raised your weapons beside me in battles before this day. Many of you have not, and indeed this is the first encounter with the foe since your preparatory missions. It matters not. We are all Adeptus Astartes. We are all sons of Lord Guilliman. We are all servants of the Emperor.’

He could not resist a glance towards Judiciar Admonius before he continued.

‘It is not for ourselves that we fight, though we owe our brothers our commitment. We were created to spearhead a war far greater than any single warrior. Our foes seem without limit, but we will find it. We shall slay as many as needed, until the galaxy is secured once more for the dominion of humanity.’

He took another breath, settling into himself, finding direction from his own words.

‘Remember that every blow you strike, every bolt you fire, is directed towards that single duty. Know also that at our backs stands the whole of the Imperium, its will bent to the reconquest of lost realms, the succour of enslaved worlds and the destruction of the dark enemy that has brought this wrath upon them. You are the implementation of that will. You are the Emperor’s strength given form. Fight well and you shall not die, for your names shall live on ever after in glory!’

As his triumphant shout reverberated across the hall, Nemetus signalled the embarkation to begin. He felt Admonius beside him and turned his gaze on the Chaplain-in-Waiting.

‘A fine speech,’ said the Judiciar. ‘Now let your deeds echo your words.’

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Indomitus in Great Britain in 2020.
This eBook edition published in 2020 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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Cover illustration by Rachel Williams

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