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Purity is a Lie – Gav Thorpe

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Blackstone Fortress’

A Black Library Publication

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Purity is a Lie

By Gav Thorpe

The air inside the drinking hole was thick with lho smoke, sweat and alcohol fumes. More than that, it was thick with the stench of heresy. Wherever Taddeus looked he saw miscreants, xenos scum and blasphemers against the God-Emperor. Revelry not in celebration of the God-Emperor’s victories was an affront to the sacrifices of the Thronelord and there was much revelry amid the stink of ‘Looter’s Den’.

His arrival did not go unmarked. Chairs scraped across the bare boards of the floor and conversations faltered into silence. From behind a bar of stacked ammunition crates, the vendor scowled. The skinny, scar-faced man reached behind the improvised counter, no doubt for a weapon. Elsewhere blades slid from sheaths, powercells whined on activation and several autoweapons clicked and crunched as hammers were drawn back and safeties released.

The reassuring buzz of Taddeus’ servo-stubber sounded close to his right ear as the self-determining anti-grav skull ascended into view. As it steadily panned back and forth the barrel of its gun tracked slowly across the denizens of the establishment, red targeting beams pulsing from its eye sockets.

‘This ain’t your pulpit, Ecclesiarchy man,’ growled a treasure hunter leaning on the bar, her face half-hidden beneath the broad brim of her hat. One hand held a small glass of yellow liquid; the other was hooked into her belt close to a holstered laspistol.

Hostile eyes regarded the preacher from all directions: many human, some insectoid, one pair just points of ochre light.

‘And I’m not here to preach,’ Taddeus replied, his gaze scanning the room. He smoothed his hands down the front of his vestments, wiping away the settling dust and ash of the drinking hole.

‘Everyone can relax,’ said a rakish man from the far corner, his chair leaning back against the wall, booted feet on the tabletop before him. His garb was of an Imperial noble, frock coat and mock-military stylings. The hide of a xenos beast trailed across his shoulders. A neatly trimmed moustache and oiled hair completed an image of privilege at odds with the unwashed and unkempt denizens that made up the remaining patrons. Almost unseen, he held a long-barrelled duelling pistol in his lap, its muzzle pointing towards the barman.

‘No trouble, not in my cantina,’ the man said, placing both his hands back on the counter, empty.

The servo-stubber lowered, its eyes returning to their dark green dormant state. A few patrons remained with weapons directed at the newcomer.

‘And a round of drinks on my tab!’ Draik declared.

Eyes followed Taddeus as he weaved through the close tables, but the low conversations, glug of drinks poured and clink of glasses slowly resumed as he reached the chair opposite Janus Draik, the rogue trader he had come to meet.

Draik dragged his feet from the table and invited Taddeus to sit with a glance. The rogue trader pushed a glass towards the priest and lifted a clay jug in offer. Taddeus’ lip curled in reply.

‘It’s water,’ said Draik, topping up his own glass. ‘Fresh, not filtered. A shipment arrived this morning, nearly two thousand pints.’

‘It is still a luxury, a weakness,’ said Taddeus, though his tongue could almost taste the untainted liquid, free from the acrid hint of recycling that marred all the water piped through the chambers of Precipice.

‘Perhaps you could bless some of the filtered water, make it taste good,’ said Draik with a half-smile. ‘You call yourself the Purifier, yes?’

Taddeus sat down and did not dignify the poor joke with a reply.

‘Not the talkative type, I see,’ the rogue trader continued, assuming a more businesslike air. ‘Fair enough, I can appreciate that.’

‘Your missive said that you needed my assistance.’

‘It did, and I do.’ Draik leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial level, his eyes darting to the left and right before he continued. ‘I have pieced together one of the routes to the hidden vault we are all seeking.’

‘Speak for yourself. I seek the Emperor’s Truth.’

‘Then why are you on Precipice, hanging around as welcome as ogryn flatulence? I have watched you trying to get to the Blackstone Fortress. And failing. Now is your chance, with me.’

‘Let’s assume I’ll indulge you, Draik. What are you suggesting?’

‘I have coordinates and guidance logs for the mag-lev transporters that will take us to somewhere called… Well, it is called the deathmaze. Not inviting, I know. Some have reached it before in their attempts to find a way through to the next ring of vault defences.’

‘They failed?’

‘None have returned, so I would wager they died.’ Draik fixed his eyes on Taddeus, radiating sincerity. ‘I need an extra pair of eyes and hands on this venture.’

‘You have been here longer than many others and must’ve made all kinds of acquaintances. Why do you need me for this particular expedition?’

‘I trust you, Taddeus. There’s only a handful of others I trust, and one of them was injured as we acquired this new data, but I cannot wait for them to recuperate in case there is some change in the Blackstone Fortress’ layout. The mag-lev system can handle four people at most, so I find myself with an opening, and you have an opportunity. Precipice is full of vagabonds and scum, and you might name me amongst them, but you are different, I think. Courageous and determined. Not the sort to be dissuaded by a dangerous foe. A man of the Emperor, guided by His divine light. You think I have wandered from the righteous path, but I assure you that I have always kept it in sight even as I have meandered a little from its straight course. I want to help you do the Emperor’s work, while you help me solve the riddles of this terrible but intriguing place.’

The rogue trader’s words were as worthless as anyone else’s, but there was a singular fact that could not be ignored: no others had yet been willing to accompany Taddeus into the depths of the Blackstone Fortress. It was too daunting a task for just the Purifier and his aide, Vorne. Suicide, in fact, to progress any degree into the mysteries of the alien station without more companions.

He had to believe the God-Emperor had led him to this corruption for a reason, and not simply to cleanse it. He saw again the truth in the flames, the images that the God-Emperor had sent to him in the dance of the holy fires. He had heard of the alien station from the gossiping lips of a Naval rating, but it was in the flames that had purified the impenitent man shortly after that he had truly seen the will of the God-Emperor.

A galaxy aflame with the righteous fires, with Taddeus as the spark that would light that pyre across the stars. The Blackstone Fortress was a gift; its secrets could not fall into the hands of aliens and heretics before the faithful had uncovered them.

‘These others that you trust.’ The priest looked around the drinking hole. ‘Who will also be going with us?’

‘Does it matter?’ Draik asked sharply. ‘If you have been given sight of your prize, would you turn away from it if the surrounding view was not to your liking? Or would you grasp it with both hands?’

The rogue trader was dissembling, but his point was valid. The unavoidable need for allies left Taddeus with few options.

None, in fact.

‘We have concord,’ said Taddeus. ‘I will bring the Clarion to the Stygian Aperture and rendezvous with you.’

Draik’s hand slid across the table and left a small crystal in front of the priest.

‘We cannot enter by the Stygian Aperture, not this time. My last expedition uncovered a smaller entry point, hidden in the scan-shadow of the furthest arm of the Blackstone Fortress. I have calculated a flight path that will get you there undetected by those who would steal our claim. The details are embedded in this crystal.’

Taddeus took up the crystal and stood. Draik did likewise and extended a hand to seal the pact between them. The Purifier took it in his strong grip and did not let go when the rogue trader tried to pull his hand back.

‘We are allies, not friends,’ Taddeus told the rogue trader, dragging him a little closer, his gaze burning into the other man’s eyes. ‘But it is not my judgement that should concern you, for when you perish you must answer to the God-Emperor for your deeds and misdeeds.’

Draik tore his hand away with a sour look. Taddeus thrust the data-crystal into a hidden pocket within his cassock and stalked away.

The joyful chorus of the Clarion’s navigational system rose to a crescendo as the missionary vessel slipped between two dark pillars that jutted from an outcrop of the Blackstone Fortress.

The rising harmony was in direct contrast to the feelings of Taddeus the Purifier, who was usually roused by the triumphant tone of his vessel’s autohymnals.

‘Master, look.’ Pious Vorne pointed over his shoulder towards a darker recess ahead, her other hand laid upon the back of the priest’s command throne. Her voice was hushed with reverence, distorted by the black breather that covered nose and mouth.

There was a white glow within the artificial cavern, but the gleam soon betrayed its mundane origins as the beams of another spacecraft nestled on the flat ground within. An ident-code pinged across the display, confirming that it was the Vanguard, starship of Janus Draik. The Clarion responded in kind without prompt and settled itself next to the rogue trader’s craft.

As hydraulics settled beneath the weight of the ship in the artificial gravity of the Blackstone Fortress – a gravity whose source nobody knew – Taddeus felt a shimmer of excitement.

‘We’re finally here, Vorne,’ he told his companion.

‘The fortress of the abyss, lair of unbelievers and mutant filth,’ she replied, gushing at the prospect. Above the mask her eyes were bright and wide. ‘The cleansing will begin.’

‘Not yet, pious child,’ Taddeus reminded her. ‘You must remain here for the time being. The deal with Draik is only for me.’

Sadness entered her gaze but she knew better than to raise argument against the preacher.

Taddeus rose from the seat and placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing encouragement through the thick fabric of his zealot’s robe.

‘Soon we’ll delve into this pit of darkness together. When the Emperor has guided me safely through the deathmaze and I return with greater knowledge, I’ll lead expeditions of my own into the bowels of the hell-base.’

‘I shall monitor what I can from here, favoured of the God-Emperor,’ she told him, before slipping past into the control seat. She activated a few runes and the main display lit up with various digital gauges, each hovering between green and orange. ‘There’s a captive atmosphere. Breathable, but not by much of a margin.’

Taddeus readied himself, taking his pocket copy of the Imperial Creed, his laspistol and power maul at his belt. He stepped into the lock chamber that led to the boarding steps, servo-stubber following him in guard mode.

‘Grant me the strength to labour for your glory, God-Emperor,’ he said to himself, hand hovering over the door release button. ‘Protect your humble servant if you see my course as righteous, and deliver me into thy sight so that I may know thy will anew.’

He pushed the activator. Sirens blared briefly as the lock chamber equalised pressures. Taddeus felt light-headed for a moment and the outer door opened, revealing the dark interior of the Blackstone Fortress.

He strode down the steps with purpose, eyes adjusting to the gloom to pick out Janus Draik standing close to the alighting ramp of the Vanguard.

‘Welcome to the adventure,’ said the rogue trader. ‘Glad you could make it.’

‘I don’t do pleasantries, Draik,’ Taddeus replied. ‘Let’s get started.’

‘There are two more to come.’

‘Your companions aren’t on your ship?’

‘They have their own spacecraft. It is better that way – each vessel can support us if need be. Believe me, preacher, we shall need all the assistance we can muster.’

They waited in silence until a few minutes later a slender vessel silently slipped into the lighted docking bay. Its surface seemed to ripple like oil on water, changing colour until it almost disappeared from view.

‘Xenos…’ hissed Taddeus. ‘You would bring inhuman beasts on this expedition?’

‘I bring who I choose,’ replied Draik. ‘And Amallyn Shadowguide is the keenest shot on all of Precipice.’

‘I will not share air with enemies of the Emperor,’ snarled Taddeus, taking a step back.

‘We have a pact, priest,’ growled Draik, hand moving to his holstered pistol. ‘I thought your word would be worth something.’

Taddeus held his tongue as an aperture whispered open in the side of the newly arrived starship, a tongue-like ramp extruding down to the surface of the Blackstone Fortress.

The being that stepped into the light was hard to see, a shimmering hint of a figure as indistinct as the hull of the vessel from which it stepped.

The disturbance in the air settled a few paces away and resolved itself into a tall, slender humanoid, a cloak of shifting chromatic effects slung over one shoulder, longrifle in hand.

‘Pernicious eldar!’ said Taddeus, almost spitting the words. His servo-stubber responded to his mood, rising up quickly from behind him, ruddy eye beams fixing on the alien’s chest.

The eldar’s lips moved and a split second later a melodious voice issued from a small badge upon her collar shaped like a face.

‘False prophet of the Emperor’s misguided church.’

‘I shall not take a step further in the company of this inhuman abomination,’ spat Taddeus.

‘Enough!’ Draik stepped between them, hands raised to ward them back. ‘I am leader of this expedition. We will have enemies enough without being at each other’s throats. You either follow me, or you can return to Precipice now.’

The eldar inclined its head towards the rogue trader, apparently a gesture of acquiescence.

‘You possess the guidance codes, therefore it is you that acts as the steering hand,’ said Amallyn.

Taddeus clenched his teeth, biting back further insults. It did him no good to turn around and return to Precipice before they had begun their expedition. This might be his only chance to get a glimpse into the secrets of the Blackstone Fortress and to gain some leverage over the denizens of Precipice.

He relented and retreated a step, making the sign of the aquila with his hands to his chest as he did so. Beneath its hood, the eldar smiled thinly, eyes watching the priest closely.

They all turned as a whine of plasma engines carried across the trapped atmosphere of the bay. Beyond the Clarion another Imperial vessel touched down, flanks glinting with gold.

Taddeus was heartened to see another ship of the God-Emperor, but his spirits soured as the occupant descended to meet them. He was dressed in a bizarre helm, his coat decorated with the symbols of a Navigator house.

‘A psyker mutant!’ Taddeus rounded on Draik, fists balled at his side. ‘You insult my faith further!’

‘Not all things that dwell within the Blackstone Fortress are mortal in nature,’ Draik said patiently, meeting Taddeus’ gaze with his own steady stare. ‘This is Espern of House Locarno, an experienced Navigator who has travelled with me into the depths before.’

‘He is warp-touched and cannot be trusted.’

‘Trust is not the currency we exchange,’ said the lilting voice of Amallyn behind them. Taddeus turned, holding back further curses.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It is need that binds out fates to a single path,’ the eldar continued. ‘Each of us will journey alone to our destiny, but if we are to reach our separate destinations we must at times share company with others. This station holds secrets as ancient as my people and it is not for a single spirit to uncover them alone.’

Draik looked at Taddeus and then back to the Clarion, his meaning clear. The priest considered his options. He could head back to Precipice and pray for another chance to make common goal with enough companions to dare a venture into the Blackstone Fortress, or he could continue with the opportunity the God-Emperor had already laid before him.

It was a test, he realised. His faith was strong enough to resist the corruption around him, and that was why he had been delivered to this place. Xenos, heretics and mutants would not sway him from his path, any more than the inhabitants of the ancient space citadel.

He swallowed back his disgust, realising that it was wounded pride as much as any true anger.

‘Lead on,’ he said to Draik.

The rogue trader ushered them across the landing bay towards a gleaming alcove in the wall. Within was a circular platform just about large enough for the four of them, alien runes inscribed into the walls around it. One of the infamous mag-lev transporters that allowed them to traverse the labyrinthine depths of the Blackstone Fortress.

‘You are sure your guidance coordinates are accurate?’ asked Espern Locarno, his voice softly projected by his elaborate helm.

‘We are about to find out…’ said Draik, his hands dancing across the controls.

The platform hummed into life and Taddeus had one last glimpse of the Clarion before it seemed to flash upwards, though in truth it was their descent that had taken it from view. With an eldar behind him and psyker to his right, it felt as though he were plunging into the bowels of the Unholy Abyss itself.

Taddeus was surprised how quickly he lost sense of time and direction. The inertia-suppressed motion of the mag-lev left him with no idea how far they had descended or traversed the Blackstone Fortress, only a blur of changing colours to indicate where they raced past a bewildering myriad of levels and chambers. The air had grown heavier with humidity as they slowed to a halt, and the mag-lev deposited them on a concourse of dark blue crystalline material, the branch of paths ahead walled by high arcs of more glasslike azure.

‘Where’s the light coming from?’ he asked, his words barely a whisper yet sounding like a shout in the silence of the alien chamber.

‘Ambient illumination,’ Amallyn replied through the translator badge. ‘Energised particles in the air itself.’

‘Time to go. We need to cross the corridors here and take another mag-lev deeper,’ Draik told them.

Taddeus stepped from the platform, skin sheened with sweat, his robes glistening with the latent moisture in the air. Draik hurried past, pistol in hand. The priest drew his own pistol and slipped his power maul from his belt, thumbing the rune that encased the club in a shimmering field of blue. Red light briefly strobed the tunnel ahead as the servo-stubber quickly scanned for eligible targets.

They had advanced no more than a few steps when the voice of Amallyn’s communicator dropped to a harsh whisper.

‘I hear movement ahead.’

The thought of the unnatural senses of the xenos brought a prickle of discomfort to Taddeus and he gritted his teeth against voicing his unease. They continued on cautiously, trying to discern some sense of space and direction from the semi-reflective walls. About a hundred feet from the mag-lev the corridors branched, opening into a wider space to the left and continuing on a winding path to the right.

There was movement in the larger chamber. Taddeus’ gut lurched as he saw Astra Militarum uniforms, their Imperial insignia removed or defaced.

‘Traitors!’ he roared, breaking into a run. He snapped off shots from his pistol as he sprinted. He was no marksman but the spray of fire forced one of his enemies to duck back. A heartbeat later the red targeting threads of the servo-stubber converged on the face of another traitor, his face disappearing in a welter of solid bullets, the roar of the stub gun deafening in Taddeus’ left ear.

The renegade troopers turned towards him while flickers of blue bolts from Draik’s laspistol lashed past, sending one of the traitors crumpling to the ground. The renegades parted, three turning their weapons on Taddeus, the others heading to the side towards some unknown objective. Red las-blasts spat across the hall at the preacher, one of them flaring into his shoulder. He stumbled, burning scraps of cloth drifting from the hit, his shoulder a knot of pain. He turned the sensation into rage, channelling the momentary fear into anger as he powered on, bringing back the power maul for a swing.

One of the human renegades leapt forward to meet Taddeus’ charge. Her grey uniform was streaked with dust and blood and she had painted a crude symbol of her new allegiance across her brow, now smeared by sweat, curled hair lank against her cheeks. Her bayonet speared towards Taddeus’ chest. He smashed the blade aside and plunged his own weapon into the traitor’s gut. The power field sparked as it met flesh, disrupting the molecular bond of skin and muscle. The renegade flew back from the blow, a cry wrenched from her as she doubled over. Taddeus fired his pistol into the top of her head, the blue bolt of light slashing through skull and brain.

Draik was at his side a moment later, his slender, gleaming blade parrying and thrusting. Taddeus hurled himself at another foe, spittle flying as he spewed curses at the renegade soldiers.

‘Thrice-cursed is the one that turns from the Emperor’s light,’ he snarled, slicing at the throat of his target. ‘The dark of the abyss will consume thy soul and eternal penance will not rectify your debts!’

He pushed forward, stepping on the corpse of the woman to launch himself at the next enemy, power maul blazing. The man still wore his sergeant insignia and lifted a blade to halt the downward sweep of Taddeus’ maul. His blow deflected by the traitor, Taddeus raised his pistol but the renegade sergeant knocked the weapon aside, bringing up his own sidearm.

Taddeus was no novice in combat, but as he stared at the gleaming muzzle of the traitor’s pistol he realised he was no veteran either.

‘The God-Emperor protects,’ he whispered.

‘Not today,’ snarled the traitor.

A flash blinded Taddeus and his ears rang at the sound of close detonation. He winced and retreated a step, expecting to feel the surge of pain.

He felt nothing and, blinking away the spots in his eyes, saw the former Imperial Guardsman topple backwards, four holes in his chest plastron from a close-range stubber salvo. The servo-skull darted forward, scanning beams searching for signs of life in the falling corpse.

Taddeus turned back to the others. In his fervour to get to the enemy, he had become separated from the rest of the group by an influx of reinforcements. He was about to throw himself into the fray once more when a low whine drew his attention to the wall behind him.

A vertex between two azure planes separated, a line of glimmering light that quickly opened into a doorway.

Taddeus had only a second to wonder at this change before two mechanical artifices scuttled into view. They each walked on four multijointed legs that ended in points rather than feet, vaguely insect-like in gait and appearance. The priest had heard tales of them on Precipice; known as spindle drones, they were part of the Blackstone Fortress’ native defence systems.

The servo-stubber reacted before he did, sending a flurry of bullets into the closest spindle drone. The rounds ricocheted from its armoured carapace with harsh shrieks and the drone retreated a few steps under the barrage. The second pulsed a blast of energy at Taddeus, hitting him squarely in the chest. The impact staggered him backwards, heart hammering, pain flaring through his ribs and breastbone. Gasping for breath, he raised his pistol to return fire but was forced to duck back as the spindle drone’s blaster tracked towards him, its next salvo barely missing the preacher.

Ignoring the agony in his chest, Taddeus forced himself forward, bringing the power maul down onto the casing of the closest spindle drone. The material bent beneath the blow and its legs buckled, but it recovered and jabbed a limb through his calf. Taddeus ripped himself from the piercing leg, crying out as he fell sideways, slipping on his own blood. The servo-stubber fired again, the stink of solid propellant strong in the priest’s nostrils as it hammered shots into the already weakened carapace, sending splinters of armour and sparking pieces of internal workings flaring through the air.

The gleam of the remaining drone’s sensor lens turned a brighter shade of red, and it fixed upon him. Mechanical limbs flexed, ready to spring forward even as the blaster zeroed in on its target, directly at Taddeus’ face. Behind it, another spindle drone lunged into view.

Even as he saw the blaster of the closest spindle drone brightening, a flurry of impacts sparked across the joints where limbs and torso met. Its legs severed by the rapid shots, the spindle drone fell in half, lens and blaster falling dim.

In the same breath a second fusillade smashed into the eye of the remaining mechanical foe, punching directly into its artificial control systems. It seemed to rear backwards, two limbs flailing, and then fell sideways, spindle legs spasming rapidly on the crystal floor before falling still.

Getting to his feet, Taddeus looked over his shoulder, but at first saw nothing but blue crystal. After a couple of seconds a wall some distance away shimmered, and he thought for a moment another doorway was opening. The parting colours became a fold of cloth, which Amallyn swept back over a shoulder, revealed from beneath a cameleoline cloak. The eldar’s longrifle slipped sideways a fraction until it was pointing directly at Taddeus.

A moment later the alien lifted the weapon away with a smirk, and took aim towards the few remaining traitor Guardsmen. Taddeus fell to one knee, trembling all over, while the servo-stubber hovered above him, its magazine clicking empty as it tried to fire once more.

Slightly dizzy from the stimms he’d taken to combat the pain of his injuries, the wound in his leg still throbbing despite the binding he’d put on it, Taddeus limped along behind Draik. They had left behind the crystal passages and ascended – at least Taddeus thought they had ascended – on another mag-lev. More traitors had tried to bar their path and had been justly slain. Taddeus tempered his righteous anger for the second encounter, not wishing to find himself isolated again.

The route seemed circuitous but Draik assured them they were getting closer to the entrance of the deathmaze. The chambers they passed through in this part of the Blackstone Fortress seemed to be smoothly hewn from a rocky substance, veined with strata like a cliff face. Patches of glowing mould grew where surfaces met, adding a pale green illumination to the glare of yellow lumens fixed in the low ceiling.

A stark blue light flickered from a corridor ahead, throwing humanoid shadows along the floor. Several more actinic bursts followed, their source coming closer.

‘Negavolt cultists,’ murmured Draik, bringing up his pistol as he came to a stop.

‘What are they?’ Taddeus had never heard of such a cult but felt apprehension twist its fingers around his stomach.

‘Perversions of the Cult Mechanicus,’ intoned Espern Locarno. ‘They thrive on pain and anger and have turned their bodies into energy generators powered by these negative emotions.’

‘Then we should purge them swiftly,’ said Taddeus, activating his power maul. The blaze of its light was similar to the glare from the approaching cultists and he wondered about the exact nature of the incoming enemy.

Voices drifted down the corridor, indistinct and hidden by a background hum and hiss of discharges. Taddeus and the others waited with weapons ready but it quickly became apparent that the Negavolt cultists were not aware of them, nor were they coming closer.

‘We should circumnavigate their position,’ suggested Amallyn.

‘Never!’ snarled Taddeus. ‘It is our duty and our right to vanquish these abominations for the God-Emperor.’

‘Conflict without purpose will lead us to our ruin,’ replied the eldar.

‘I agree with Amallyn, in principle,’ said Draik. ‘We cannot kill everything on the Blackstone Fortress, we would get nowhere. But the mag-lev we need to take is behind them. We have to get past and I do not know another way around.’

Galvanised by this, the party headed on, weapons at the ready as they turned the angle in the corridor and came upon a long, narrow hallway. The Negavolt cultists, three of them, were trying to prise a panel away from the wall – a metal plate taller than they were and about three feet broad. Taddeus could see the tell-tale swirl of a mag-lev portal at the far end of the hall.

They opened fire together, las-bolts and rifle fire scything down two of the enemy, bursts of cerulean static flaring from their wounds. The third lifted energy-wreathed fists and uttered an ear-piercing shriek, a staccato ululation that was part Imperial Gothic, part Lingua-technis. Two more cultists arrived from a doorway beyond the panel, their bodies burning with blue light.

Taddeus and Draik set off together, pistols spitting more bolts. Locarno followed a few steps behind, while Amallyn provided covering fire from the archway they had left. They had covered half the distance to the Negavolt cultists when the Navigator grabbed Taddeus’ sleeve. He turned with a snarl, wrenching the cloth from the mutant’s grip.

‘I see a disturbance in the warp aura of this place,’ Locarno warned, a gloved finger pointing towards a sealed doorway a short distance ahead.

‘Rogue psyker?’ Taddeus spat the words, his anger flaring bright at the thought of such a heretic close at hand.

Draik had reached the cultists and the hallway shone with flickers of electricity and the flare of his power sword. Locarno sped ahead, hand flashing past a door activation panel to open the portal. Beyond him, Taddeus glimpsed a twisted figure in scarlet robes, a bulbous, misshapen head out of place atop its gangling body.

Taddeus wanted to be sick at the sight of such a perversion of human flesh, and knew that the physical deformities were but a symptom of the spiritual malaise that tainted the psyker. Motes of silver started to circle around the fugitive’s upraised hand as he turned towards the sound of the opening door.

A sudden cry from behind dragged Taddeus’ attention back down the hallway.

Amallyn was down on one knee, the slashing limbs of a spindle drone wrapped about the alien’s arm and rifle, having apparently come unseen from behind. The xenos cut apart another with a sweep of an energised power sword, but then fell back with another cry as the spindle drone grappling the alien fired its blaster.

Taddeus glanced back at the rogue psyker, his gut lurching at the sight of the sorcerous energies gathering around the mutant. Blasphemy given form, the renegade had to die!

The preacher took a step, pistol raised, but another high-pitched shout from Amallyn echoed down the hallway.

‘Emperor guide me,’ Taddeus muttered before he turned and ran, ignoring the surge of pain from his wounds. He fired as he sprinted towards the beleaguered xenos, flares of blue laser slamming into the metallic shell of the spindle drone and the wall behind it. The mechanised creature leapt sideways, smoke trailing from several holes in its carapace, while in the corridor beyond three more ruddy lights gleamed into life, betraying the presence of more.

Freed from the grip of the spindle drone, the eldar brought the longrifle to bear, a salvo of shots spitting into the dim distance. Taddeus raced past, bullets from the servo-stubber hammering into the damaged spindle drone, ripping it apart. His power maul swept the legs out from underneath the next, toppling it to its back so that he could blast exposed cable innards with his pistol.

He straightened, expecting to feel the flare of drone blasters hitting him, but there was no further attack – the other spindle drones had disappeared as swiftly as they had arrived.

Taddeus extended a hand, helping the eldar back up, trying not to cringe at the thought of alien flesh touching his skin, even though Amallyn wore gloves.

‘As you said, we need each other,’ the priest told the alien. He took a step towards the ongoing battle, seeing that Locarno had retreated from the room with the rogue psyker, taking shelter at the doorway while bursts of black fire rippled from the opening.

‘Thank you.’ Amallyn’s words caused him to turn back to the xenos.

He shook his head, but said nothing. He did not care for the eldar’s thanks; his act had been one of crude necessity. He owed nothing to these tainted beings, but he needed to fight beside them for the time being.

When he had unlocked the secrets of the Blackstone Fortress he would turn that power on mutant and xenos and heretic alike. Their aid only ushered him closer to becoming their destroyer.

About the Author

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

An extract from Blackstone Fortress.

How they would have wept to hear him. All those years of brutal tutelage, so many prayers meted out with an unsparing stick, and not one of their aphorisms had stayed with him – all that cant wiped away by the savagery of the war. Only one simple phrase, whispered to the rhythm of his breath, had kept him alive. Through the needle’s eye. He could see it in his mind – a sliver of sanity, surrounded by a galaxy of madness. I live or die.

In place of a sky, it seemed Sepus Prime wore a dirty, sodden cloth, stained the same feculent shade of dun as the mud below. It sagged low over the fly-clad marshes, bleeding a desolate rain, crushing the mounds of dead and billowing around a shame-faced sun. Glutt waded through the filth, a slight man weighed down by a heavy coat. His face was a mask of dark, viscous mud, and his mouth was hidden by a rebreather. Only his eyes were visible – flashes of white beneath a peaked cap, scouring the trench for the shot that would finally kill him.

‘Through the needle’s eye,’ he whispered, risking a glimpse into no-man’s-land, using his staff to haul himself over a broken trench wall.

Fumes lay heavy on the swamp, crawling lazily over shattered gun emplacements and crook-backed trees. Even through his rebreather Glutt could smell the chemical stink of enemy weapons. How many of the regiment were still alive out there? Betrayed. Clawing at their throats, calling for loved ones, begging for the help they were promised. The reinforcements that never came. They never came. They had all been fools, but he would be a fool no more. Anger fractured Glutt’s thoughts, dangerous and raw. He recited his mantra with vehemence, clinging to his mind, weighing it down with words.

He pulled out a map and wiped it clean, tracing a finger over the gridlines, counting the miles. He was close. Another few hours and he would see the barracks. He had no desire to rejoin the regiment now, after all that he had seen, but where else could he go? He had no vox and he dared not risk any other method of communication, and this side of the valley seemed to have been forgotten. The earth shivered beneath a mortar shell rain, but it was a distant sound, like the echo of a storm.

An image flashed through his mind, so vivid he gasped – pale, ruptured flesh tearing over a clinker-black shell. He drove the vision down but it coiled beneath his thoughts, waiting for his guard to slip. He had seen it countless times over the last few months. It was horrific, but part of him was also fascinated. It was so clear. What did it mean?

He was about to drop back down into the trench when he saw movement in the smoke – half a mile away, near a bombed-out gun emplacement. He grabbed his laspistol and peered through the scope.

‘Sorov?’ he whispered, catching a glimpse of red sash.

There was another blur of movement, then nothing. Only the lolling, yellow fumes and the sporadic grumble of mortars. He had not seen a soul for two days. Perhaps he imagined the shapes? Then he heard a faint crackling – not the rattle of gunfire, but the white noise of a vox-unit. It came from the gun emplacement.

He dropped into the bunker, his breath coming in snatched bursts. Insurrectionists were everywhere. Snipers haunted every gully, masquerading as corpses, lying patiently beneath cold limbs, waiting for some fool to break cover. Again he heard the crackle of vox traffic, muted by the fumes but unmistakable.

He peered up over the scorched embrasure, looking through the gunsight again, trying to guess where a sniper might hide. There was a rusted tank chassis, halfway to the gun emplacement, jutting from the mud like an unearthed fossil: a Leman Russ, one of its sponsons still visible, pointing defiantly at the leaden clouds. Just the kind of place a sniper might wait. He looked in the other direction. There was a trench, parallel with his, about a hundred feet away. It had caved in, sporting a crest of broken joists and blast-warped girders. Again, exactly the kind of place snipers might hide. There were cadavers in the razorwire, swaying in the breeze like abandoned marionettes. It looked as though they had been thrown clear of the trench by an air strike, but he had seen traitors adopt that pose, then lurch into movement at the first sign of a target.

‘Lieutenant Sorov?’ he whispered. Could he still be alive? And if he was, why would he be here? The push on the civitate had started. Sorov always led from the front. Why would he be back here, so far from the front line? The thought that the lieutenant might still be alive shook Glutt’s resolve. Sorov had stood by the men. He alone in all the regiment seemed worthy of trust.

Glutt hunkered in the trench, crippled by indecision. The image of torn flesh washed through his thoughts again, but he crushed it with his mantra, determined to think clearly. What if it was Sorov out there? Could there still be another route for him, even now?

Glutt bolted up the trench wall and ran through the smoke, head down, flicking his pistol from the tank to the corpses. His footfalls rang out through the smog. Slap. Slap. Slap. Flies whirled around him, drawn by his blood-black coat. Sweat pooled in his eyes. He tried to sprint, but his legs were wasted from lack of food and the mud gripped his heavy boots, leaching what little strength he had left.

Minutes passed until finally the gun emplacement reared up before him, brutal and angular, a slab of pitted rockcrete shattered by artillery. One side was intact, but the other was gone, leaving the surreal sight of a furnished room, split down the middle and hanging in the air. The furniture was undisturbed: a neatly made bunk, metal plan chests, a small dining table; all perched in the clouds, washed clean by the endless rain.

Glutt had almost reached the walls when he heard someone snap the safety off a lasgun.

He staggered to a halt, his heart thudding as he tried to pinpoint the sound.

‘The savant?’ The words were spoken quietly, but they echoed across the swamp, eerie and dislocated.

‘Lieutenant Sorov?’ gasped Glutt, still crouched, staring at the shifting clouds.

‘Throne,’ said Sorov, striding into view, flanked by Guardsmen, their lasguns trained on Glutt.

‘In,’ he snapped, waving for Glutt to approach.

Glutt staggered forwards, into the arms of the Guardsmen, who grabbed his filthy coat and hurled him inside the ruined tower.

As Glutt lay panting on the floor, Sorov and the others stood over him, scowling.

Sepus Prime could not touch Lieutenant Sorov. He shrugged it off like an idle threat. He was one of those officers with the inhuman ability to look clean, fresh and unperturbed as the galaxy went to hell around them. His hair was immaculate, oiled and gleaming beneath his cap, and the buttons on his coat flashed proudly as he moved. An old scar curved from the corner of his mouth to his ear, but even that looked deliberate – just another military honour. He studied Glutt through half-lidded eyes.

‘Where is the rest of your detail?’

‘We never made it to the front lines, lieutenant. The insurrectionists were on us before we reached Tadmor Ridge. I was able to–’ He hesitated, noting the wary expressions of the Guardsmen. ‘I was able to disable some of them, but there were too many.’

‘You’re a psyker?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You abandoned your men?’

‘No.’

‘They’re dead,’ said Sorov, his expression blank, ‘and you are not.’

‘I did everything I could, lieutenant.’

Sorov studied him in silence. No one helped him to his feet.

The silence was broken by the crackle of the vox-unit. There was another trooper crouched a few feet away – a comms officer, hunched over his vox-caster.

‘Ten minutes until contact,’ said the Guardsman, with the handset held to his ear. There was a tremor of excitement in his voice. ‘Everything went to plan.’

Sorov closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again he looked back at Glutt. ‘Tell me, Glutt,’ he said. ‘If you were a traitor, why would you have stumbled over here and revealed yourself, rather than using your talents to kill me from a safe distance?’

Glutt struggled to keep his expression neutral. Traitor. Sorov had pinpointed the doubts that had haunted him for weeks. All he saw on Sepus were pitiable fools and callous, inhuman orders. His faith was gone. What did that leave?

‘There is no reason,’ said Sorov. His expression softened. ‘You’ve done well to last this long, soldier. Not many have.’ He nodded to his men. ‘Pick him up. And keep an eye on him. He’s a sanctioned psyker. Don’t let him ruin this.’

As the Guardsmen dragged Glutt from the mud, Sorov headed over to the comms officer.

‘Korbol,’ he said, glancing up at the shattered floor of the room above their heads. ‘Anything?’

‘Nothing, lieutenant.’

Sorov nodded, and then glanced back at Glutt. ‘Over here.’

Glutt tried to brush some of the muck from his coat as he rushed after Sorov, but it had dried into a thick crust. He moved with the clumsy, awkward steps of an automaton.

‘Get me Kapek,’ said Sorov to the vox-officer.

There was another burst of static, then a voice came through the speakers, ghostly and hazed by distance, like an old recording.

‘This is Sergeant Kapek. We have–’ The voice was cut off by a series of pops and whistles. ‘We are no closer, lieutenant. Heavier losses than anticipated. The aerial strikes failed to knock out the lascannons. They’re cutting us down.’

Sorov grabbed the handset. ‘Ten minutes, sergeant.’ His voice was an urgent whisper. ‘Ten minutes more.’

There was a pause on the other end, but it was not static this time; they could all hear the sergeant breathing. ‘Ten minutes?’ he said finally, sounding shocked.

Sorov raised his voice, despite the risk of revealing himself. ‘Throw everything you have left at them for ten more minutes. It’s working. He’s headed your way.’

This time there was no pause. ‘Ten minutes, lieutenant. We’ll do it.’

Sorov looked pained and seemed on the verge of saying more, but he held it back.

‘Lieutenant,’ came the voice again. ‘Are you still there?’

‘Sergeant.’

The voice sounded defiant this time, all trace of doubt gone. ‘It was an honour, lieutenant.’

Sorov’s expression tightened. When he spoke again, his voice was as rigid as his face. ‘High command will know, sergeant. Commander Ortegal will know what happened here today.’

Another series of pops and crackles hissed through the speaker.

‘Kapek out,’ came the reply, then the line went dead.

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Paul Dainton.

Purity is a Lie © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2018. Purity is a Lie, Warhammer Quest, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
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ISBN: 978-1-78030-771-8

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