The Plagues of Orath
Page 1
Backlist
More Warhammer 40,000 stories from Black Library
The Beast Arises
1: I AM SLAUGHTER
2: PREDATOR, PREY
3: THE EMPEROR EXPECTS
4: THE LAST WALL
5: THRONEWORLD
6: ECHOES OF THE LONG WAR
7: THE HUNT FOR VULKAN
8: THE BEAST MUST DIE
9: WATCHERS IN DEATH
Space Marine Battles
WAR OF THE FANG
A Space Marine Battles book, containing the novella The Hunt for Magnus and the novel Battle of the Fang
THE WORLD ENGINE
An Astral Knights novel
DAMNOS
An Ultramarines collection
DAMOCLES
Contains the White Scars, Raven Guard and Ultramarines novellas Blood Oath, Broken Sword, Black Leviathan and Hunter’s Snare
OVERFIEND
Contains the White Scars, Raven Guard and Salamanders novellas Stormseer, Shadow Captain and Forge Master
ARMAGEDDON
Contains the Black Templars novel Helsreach and novella Blood and Fire
Legends of the Dark Millennium
SHAS’O
A Tau Empire collection
ASTRA MILITARUM
An Astra Militarum collection
ULTRAMARINES
An Ultramarines collection
FARSIGHT
A Tau Empire novella
SONS OF CORAX
A Raven Guard collection
SPACE WOLVES
A Space Wolves collection
Visit blacklibrary.com for the full range of novels, novellas, audio dramas and Quick Reads, along with many other exclusive products
Contents
Cover
Backlist
Title Page
Warhammer 40,000
Plague Harvest - Cavan Scott
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Engines of War - Steve Lyons
Armour of Faith - Graeme Lyon
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
About the Authors
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
Warhammer 40,000
It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.
Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.
To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.
One
Surely it couldn’t be morning already?
Roj Ithell groaned, rubbing his eyes roughly with the palm of his hand.
‘What time is it?’ he slurred, rolling over, noticing the shallow imprint in the mattress where Katrina should have been. He ran a hand over the sheet. Cold. She must have been up for a while.
Roj pulled himself up, wincing as his feet made contact with the cold floorboards. He yawned, trying to focus on the aquila mounted on the wall beside the bed, running through his morning devotions with little enthusiasm. The farmhouse seemed so quiet.
He trudged out of the bedroom, stopping at the doorway to Anya’s room. Kat was sleeping in the girl’s cot, holding their daughter close. What a night. The Physician had warned them that Anya’s fever might get worse before she got better. Surely it shouldn’t take this long?
At least Kat was getting some sleep at last. She had borne the brunt of it in the night, sending him back to bed. He protested, but she wouldn’t hear of it.
‘You’ve got to be up with the dawn,’ she’d insisted. ‘You need to sleep.’
He couldn’t ask for a better wife.
Which was more than could be said about his brother-in-law.
‘You want to meet me when?’ he’d spluttered when Mattias had dropped the bombshell the night before.
‘You need to see it for yourself, Roj,’ came the reply. ‘If we’re going to meet the quotas…’
‘Fine, fine.’ Roj had thrown his hands into the air, surrendering. Even when they were at school, Roj knew better than to argue with Mattias once he had an idea lodged in that stubborn head of his. ‘I’ll be there.’
‘First light?’
‘First light, by the central water tower,’ Roj had agreed, a smile breaking out across his bearded face. ‘Sometimes I wonder who’s in charge of this plantation. You or me.’
‘Definitely me,’ Mattias joked, satisfied with the outcome. ‘Now go and look after my niece. Kat will be dead on her feet.’
‘Your sister is as strong as a grox,’ Roj insisted, waving his overseer away. ‘She’ll outlive us all.’
It certainly felt that way this morning. Roj was struggling to identify a part of his body that wasn’t aching.
Roj pulled on a shirt, swearing as the material snagged on his artificial arm. The pistons squealed as he struggled to pull it free, ripping a hole in the fabric. Roj threw it to the side, reaching for another. Six years after the threshing accident and his mechanical limb still infuriated him.
‘Looks ugly as hell,’ Mattias had said when he had first set eyes on the metal pincers that bore little resemblance to the fingers they were replacing, ‘but guess it will do the job. Just like the rest of you.’
Funny, Matt. Real funny.
Managing to struggle into the rest of his clothes without further damage, Roj crept down the stairs, wincing as they creaked beneath his feet.
A door opened in the hallway below, light streaming across the tiled floor. A head poked out, lined face creasing as it spotted him making his way down.
‘Mr Ithell,’ the old woman said, pulling her robe tighter around her neck, ‘you’re up early.’
‘Things to do, Ezmey, don’t you worry.’
‘I thought it might be…’
Roj raised his hand, cutting off the housekeeper’s concern.
‘Anya is sleeping. Mrs Ithell is with her.’
The old woman nodded.
‘You’ll need some breakfast before heading out. Did you hear the storm last night?’
She headed towards the stairs that led down into the kitchen, no doubt already concocting the perfect breakfast menu in her head. Roj glanced at the antique grandfather-chrono that stood in the hallway.
‘No time, I’m afraid, Ezmey.’ The housekeeper looked as if she was about to argue. ‘Need to get going. I’ll eat when I get back.’
Ezmey tutted. ‘Very well. I’ll make up some oats. You’ve liked those since you were a boy.’ Roj smiled at the memory, but the expression soon faded when the woman started coughing.
‘That’s a nasty hack, Ezmey. You need to take it easy. We can’t have you getting sick too.’
Ezmey dismissed the thought with a snort. ‘It’ll take more than a cough to lay me out, don’t you worry.’
Outside, the air was fresher than he’d expected. Roj shivered as he closed the farmhouse door softly, his stump throbbing steadily against his implants. More rain today then. His missing limb was more reliable than any weather station – and had throbbed more often than not in recent days.
Roj trudged over to the shed, his booted feet splashing through puddles. He’d never known a season like it. The wettest in living history, Pa Serlon had said, staring up at the grey sky. He could believe it. Throne knew what the crops would look like. Mattias was right to make an inspection. They had to be ready for the worst.
The door to the shed squealed as he yanked it open, the sudden noise startling the akanu in its stall.
‘Yes, yes. I know,’ he snapped at the large, flightless bird that squawked harshly in the enclosed space of the shed. ‘No one likes being up this early, but keep it quiet. You’ll wake the entire farm.’
The akanu continued to complain, kicking at its hay with large four-toed feet, but settled as Roj attached the harness and led the bird to the cart on the other side of the courtyard. Anya was wary of the akanu they used on the plantation, even though she had been around them all her life. It wasn’t hard to see why. The blue-feathered bird towered over Roj, let alone a child. Kat had suggested he use a transporter to get around the estate, but Roj had stuck with the akanu-drawn cart. If they had been good enough for dad, they were good enough for him. Besides, grain was much cheaper than fuel – and they didn’t break down half as much, either.
‘That’s it, girl,’ he soothed, connecting the bird to the sturdy four-wheeled vehicle. ‘Nice and easy now.’
The creature pecked at the ground as he clambered on board the cart, but soon looked up when Roj pulled on the reins.
Roj stretched in his seat as the cart rattled between the gigantic fields, the akanu’s feet slapping down on the slick pathway. A drop of ice-cold rain stung his forehead. Great. That was all he needed. Perhaps he should have brought the covered transporter, after all. He’d just wanted to feel the wind in his air, no matter how brisk it was.
He glanced around at the sorghum growing in the fields; a sea of deep green leaves. Maybe Mattias was being overcautious. The crop looked strong enough from up here, surprisingly so. Those new gen-engineered seeds had been worth the investment. His dad wouldn’t have approved. He was old school, believing that all you needed was strong soil and good husbandry. A little helping hand didn’t hurt though. Orath supplied grain for most of the subsector. Why not make the most of the planet’s natural resources? An akanu or two were one thing, but when it came to production, Roj was determined to drag the plantation into the here and now. Sorghum 184 was the future.
The water tower came into view as Roj steered the cart around the chemical store. Not far now, then back home for Ezmey’s breakfast. Roj was finally feeling hungry – although his stomach churned at the sight of the fortress on the horizon. Even though it was thirty or so kilometres away, the damned place dominated the skyline and still made him feel uneasy, even after all this time.
Why wouldn’t it? Space Marines on their doorstep, their ominous presence felt, even though the Angels of Death themselves were hardly ever seen.
Before she had fallen ill, Anya had quizzed him about their presence.
‘Why are they on Orath, Daddy? Is there a war coming?’
Roj had shushed his daughter, stroking her long blonde hair. ‘Don’t be silly, love. This is a peaceful planet.’
‘Mr Bridgeman said that there’s no such thing.’
‘Dain Bridgeman says a lot of things – which is why most of us ignore him.’
But Roj wished he could explain why the Space Marines were here, if only to put Anya’s mind at rest. The truth was that he’d asked his own father the same question, and had received much the same answer. No one knew why the Space Marines had chosen to build their bases on Orath all those years ago. They’d been here for generations. That was just the way of things.
‘Better to accept they’re here and move on,’ his dad had said. ‘Let them live their lives and get on with your own.’
It made sense. What was the worst they did, after all? Occasionally shatter the peace of the fields, flying overhead in their gunships. Dad always used to say that garrisons were reminders of how lucky they were to live on a world free from war. Perhaps he’d been right.
‘Whoa there.’
Roj pulled on the rein, slowing the akanu as they approached the water tower. The bird hissed, as bad-tempered as ever, but obediently came to a halt beside Mattias’s own transport. No akanu for his brother-in-law. Matt hated the birds, preferring to thunder around the plantation in a six-wheeler. Said he liked being high up, so he could see the top of the sorghum. Roj suspected he found the akanu a little on the slow side. He was always on the go.
Roj jumped down, tying the akanu to one of the legs of the water tower, his brow creased into a frown as he took in the crop. ‘Maybe you were right Matt. That corn doesn’t look right at all.’
He made his way over to the edge of the field, his feet squelching through the mud. The stalks were thinner than they should be, off-colour too. Perhaps the rain had taken its toll after all. Roj shivered, but not because of the chill in the air. A thought nagged at the back of his mind. Something was missing; he just couldn’t tell what. He turned 360 degrees, taking in the boundary. Everything looked present and correct, the akanu gently squawking to itself behind him.
What was it?
‘Matt?’ Roj called out, crouching down to examine an ear that had snapped from its stem.
Holding the oversized cob between his legs, he shucked the leaves, expecting to be rewarded with a flash of brilliant yellow kernels. That was another of Sorghum 184’s selling points. Larger cobs than any other strain, able to feed twice as many folk than usual. But these seeds weren’t bursting with goodness. They were shrivelled and black. He stood, reaching up to snag another ear. This one looked more promising. The kernels were the right size at least, but when he pressed against them with his finger, they burst like sacks of pus, putrid-smelling gunk oozing out. It was almost as if the corn was rotting where it stood. Any hope of saving the harvest dissipated. If this continued, it could be the worst year in the plantation’s history. First there had been the earthquake a month or so ago. Three of the outbuildings were damaged, the roof of the eastern barn completely caving in. If that wasn’t enough, sweating fever had broken out among the workers, leaving them short-handed just about everywhere. And now this. What were the odds?
‘Mattias, it’s me,’ he called, assuming his brother-in-law had ventured deeper into the cereal to see the extent of the damage. ‘I can see why you
wanted me out here. What are we looking at? Fifty per cent loss? Sixty?’
Throne help them if it was more than that.
No answer came.
A sudden roar made Roj spin on his heel, almost losing his balance. Two Space Marine aircraft thundered overhead – a heavily-armoured Imperial equivalent of a skimmer and some kind of fighter just below the clouds.
That’s when it hit him. There were no birds. Usually a flock of ground-nesting birds would have erupted from the sorghum, disturbed by the noise. Today, as the sound of the thrusters faded into the distance, there was nothing. No whir of startled wings. No cries of alarm. No birdsong at all.
What had happened to all the birds?
Unnerved, Roj pushed himself into the tall cereal, the cloying stink of wet vegetation filling his nostrils. ‘Mattias, where are you? What are you playing at?’
If this was some kind of joke, it wasn’t a very funny one.
Someone coughed ahead of him. A weak, grating hack.
‘Matt?’
Roj crashed forward and bamboo-like stems snapped as he followed the sound. The crop was full of whining midges, nipping at his skin. He slapped the back of his neck in irritation. Why hadn’t the pesticides dealt with the bloody things?
‘Matt, are you all right?’
His brother-in-law was far from all right. He was lying face down on the floor, his body heaving.
‘Emperor, what’s happened?’ Roj gasped, dropping to the ground, his knees sinking into soft mud. He leant forward, reaching across with his robotic arm to roll Matt over. ‘Are you…’
The words died in his throat. Mattias had looked drained the night before, heavy circles beneath his eyes, but Roj had put it down to fatigue, to the stresses of the last few months, concerns about the crops.
But his brother-in-law’s face was now a mass of weeping sores, livid against deathly pale skin. His swollen eyelids were jammed with a thick yellow crust and white froth speckled trembling purple lips. His breath, when it came, was nothing more than a hollow rattle.
And the smell…
‘Throne,’ Roj gagged, fighting the urge to be sick. ‘What’s happened to you?’
He leant back on his knees, hand over his mouth, momentarily unsure what to do next. Should he call for help? No, by the look of Mattias there wasn’t time. He needed to get Matt back to the village, to Ligart. The Physician would know what to do.