The Plagues of Orath

by Various

  Building a kabal and ruling it with an iron fist, he inflicted torture after torture on any other living being who happened to cross his path. In part, he did this to stave off the embrace of She Who Thirsts, the warp god that the eldar had created in their fall from grace, but he also did it because it stopped him remembering.

  Sometimes.

  When he did remember, he sent out raiding parties to Meldaen, or Orath as it was now known by the human filth who infested it. He never led them himself, and he never told those he sent their true purpose. They were content to slaughter and ravage their way across the sparsely populated world, never questioning why their master sent them there, simply enjoying that he did. And when they returned, he would question them, always furtively hoping that there would be evidence of the rift reopening. That there would be a chance of retrieving Elthaenneath from the prison he had cast himself into.

  Now was that chance. The latest party had returned earlier than expected, reporting that earthquakes had opened up underground tunnels, and that the humans had explored them, finding ancient eldar technology and removing it. That would have destabilised the makeshift barrier Elthaenneath had sacrificed his freedom to erect. The rift would open again.

  And Kharanath would be there to enact the plan he had perfected over millennia. And now, so he was. He could taste the warp taint in the air. It was delicious, like the promise of glory untold.

  ‘Soon we will be together again, Elthaenneath,’ he said. ‘And we can rule this world, as we were always meant to. Humans and eldar alike will bow before us, and we shall live as kings. Together,’ he repeated, enjoying the taste of the word on his tongue. ‘Together.’

  Far above, the warriors of his kabal fought against the human elite soldiers, the blue-armoured nuisances who seemed to be everywhere in this area of their Imperium. It was of no consequence. All his warriors could die fighting them. All that mattered was retrieving Elthaenneath.

  He knelt on the cold stone floor and carefully placed the bundle he was carrying atop the wraithbone seal. It was wrapped in the finest silks, and he slowly, with careful ceremony, unwrapped it one layer at a time. Inside sat a box, sealed with a word of power. Held within, carefully preserved in wards of anti-time, was a crystal vial, made from a piece of a farseer of the starfaring eldar kindreds.

  When they reached a great age, the wise diviners of the future turned slowly into crystal, becoming living statues. It was said that they remained conscious in their crystal form, perhaps for eternity. Kharanath didn’t know if that was true. He only knew that he needed something of such power to hold what the vial contained. And so he had obtained it. It hadn’t been easy. He had visited a dozen craftworlds and asked them for a shard from a seer. Some had simply refused, Some, such as Ulthwé, Cait-Badd and cursed Iyanden, had become openly hostile. Eventually, he had been able to bargain with the shadow-slipping Mandrakes, who had retrieved what he sought. He hadn’t asked them how, and he didn’t yet know what the price would be, though it would doubtless be great.

  Inside the vial was something that he had worked for millennia to perfect: a single drop of a substance that, when poured onto the wraithbone seal, would not only melt it away like snow in rain, but would reverse the act that had sealed it so many millennia before. It would reverse Elthaenneath’s sacrifice and restore him to reality.

  The liquid was an insane fusion of high technology and the basest of warpcraft. Magic, by any other name. It was possibly the most dangerous thing Kharanath had ever held in his hands, and its cost had been exorbitant.

  And well worth it.

  He unsealed the box and lifted the vial, marvelling at the way it caught the play of light and the colours in the chamber: the grey of stone, the crimson and black of his glossy armour, the off-white of the wraithbone, the cobalt blue of…

  Cobalt blue?

  He turned slowly, the vial clutched in one talon-like hand. At the entrance to the chamber stood a blue-armoured Space Marine, a high collar raised above his head, psychic energy playing about him like a halo.

  ‘No–’ Kharanath managed before the human raised the bulky weapon in his hand and fired at the archon. He felt pain, and he was falling, and he watched as the vial fell and shattered, and the precious liquid spilled out… onto plain rock.

  And then he heard a voice. A voice he knew.

  ‘Brother. At last. It has been such a long time, but I knew you would join me in the end…’

  ‘Elthaenneath,’ whispered Kharanath. They would be together after all, he thought as consciousness slipped away. That was something. That was something indeed.

  Epilogue

  Four Months Later

  Sergeant Aeroth stood in the courtyard of Fort Garm and watched as the Stormraven gunship came in to land. He was unarmoured, clad in a simple white surplice with the ultima stitched on the chest in gold. He stood in the shadow of the central keep as the downdraft from the flyer’s powerful engines washed over him.

  Oenomaus stood to his left and Lentulus to his right, both silent and grim-faced, and clad in the same manner as their sergeant. They were eager to leave Orath, he knew. Eager to return to Macragge and rejoin their brothers, and from there to take the Emperor’s wrath to a new battlefield. Lentulus had said so often enough in the four months since the rift had closed. Aeroth felt the same. He didn’t envy whoever was in that gunship.

  As the cobalt-hued craft, casting an immense shadow over the golden glow of the afternoon sun, came to a halt and the engines powered down, the forward ramp slowly tipped open. Out came a squad of Ultramarines, their armour trimmed in the blazing orange of the Sixth Company. They marched in step, bolters held to their chests, before forming two columns, facing one another. All were helmeted and silent.

  ‘Pompous arses,’ muttered Lentulus.

  Despite himself, Aeroth smiled. Captain Epathus’s company were known for their love of precision drilling. ‘They’ll have lots of time to practise,’ he replied.

  He returned his attention to the Stormraven. A final figure was disembarking, also clad in blue battleplate, though of a different hue than the other battle-brothers. The armour was engraved with arcane sigils, marked with badges of office – books and scrolls – and crowned with a tall, curved hood that wreathed the Space Marine’s head and crackled with ethereal energies that were reflected in the warrior’s dark, deep-set eyes. He carried a tall staff, wound with wire and topped with a horned skull.

  Aeroth stepped forward and bowed. ‘Brother-Librarian. Welcome to Orath.’

  ‘What remains of it,’ added Lentulus from behind him. Aeroth turned and glared at the warrior, who shrugged. He looked back at the Librarian.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant Aeroth,’ replied the psyker. ‘I am Koloth Lerys. I shall be the new castellan of this fortress.’

  ‘A great honour, brother,’ said Aeroth gravely.

  The Librarian smiled. ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps a great waste of time. I have read your report, Darin. I know that our brother’s noble sacrifice sealed the rifts and stemmed the tide.’

  ‘For now,’ said Oenomaus, stepping forward. ‘You must remain vigilant, lest the enemy return.’

  Lerys turned his gaze to the young battle-brother. ‘Yes, brother. Chief Librarian Tigurius agrees with that assessment. He has divined that this rift has existed for longer than the Imperium, and believes that it might be reopened some day. And so, I shall remain here, and brothers of our Chapter and our successors shall join me, and when I am recalled, or when I am no longer able to stand vigil, another member of the Librarius shall take my place. And so it shall be until the daemons return, or until the stars turn cold.’

  There was silence for a time as Lerys looked up at the fort that would be his home.

  ‘I understand that Fort Kerberos has been destroyed?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Aeroth. ‘And as far as we can tell, the seal beneath it was destroyed also. If the rift is ever to reopen, it will be here, or up there.’ He gestured to the ugly scar that spl
it the sky. No longer an open sore, it now resembled a closed, puckered wound.

  The Librarian nodded slowly.

  ‘And the people?’

  ‘Few survivors, but they are determined to rebuild. The Adeptus Mechanicus arrived two months ago. The Magos Biologis seem to believe that the contagion that blighted the crops didn’t penetrate far into the soil. They think that within a decade, the land will be arable again. People will return and Orath will reclaim its status as the sector’s breadbasket.’

  ‘I look forward to seeing that,’ said Lerys thoughtfully. ‘My family were farmers.’

  Aeroth looked round at his battle-brothers. ‘If you will excuse us, Brother-Librarian, I would like to say goodbye to some of the civilians before we embark.’

  ‘Of course, Darin. May you walk in the primarch’s footsteps.’

  Both Space Marines gave the warrior’s salute, thumping their chests with a clenched fist, and Aeroth turned and headed towards the serfs’ quarters. The survivors of the vicious fighting in the fort had all elected to remain, to help with the rebuilding and await the adepts of the Imperium who would decide the fate of their world. Over the months, Aeroth had grown quite fond of them.

  He wandered through the courtyard, nodding to the humans. He had said most of his goodbyes already, all but one.

  ‘Have you seen the priest?’ he asked a woman who was chivvying a group of children past. She shook her head and carried on. He passed through the serfs’ quarters, empty and quiet at this time of day, and came to the cell that Andronicus had made home. The priest’s few possessions were there, neatly arrayed on the small desk – a torn and tattered copy of his holy book, a few items of clothing and a battered canteen.

  Aeroth frowned. He had never seen the priest without the canteen. He lifted it. It felt half-full and sloshed with liquid. The sergeant set it back down and walked back outside. He knew that he would never see the old man again, and some part of him, deep down, said that no one ever would.

  Some mysteries, he thought, simply weren’t meant to be solved.

  Lerys watched the Stormraven take off and speed away into orbit. He looked around, taking in the crumbling rockcrete walls of the keep and the surrounding battlements.

  ‘Fort Garm,’ he said. ‘Home.’ He turned and walked inside, heading towards the command chamber. Inside were banks of cogitators and communicators, a desk and, on one wall, a carved stone memorial with a list of names. He reached out and touched them as he read the names aloud. ‘Vabion, Melkan, Hura…’

  He recited each in turn, until he came to the end. ‘Iova. Sentina…’ He paused. There was another name after the late Chaplain’s. Where Sentina’s and the others were laser-carved, precise and rounded, this last looked as though it had been scratched into the stone with a crude tool. It was little more than a series of shaky lines, but it formed a name. He wondered who the person was, what their story was. He wondered why they belonged on this wall of heroes.

  He supposed he would never know. He read the name aloud.

  ‘Alia.’

  About the Authors

  Cavan Scott’s writing for Black Library includes the short stories ‘Doom Flight’ and ‘Trophies’, with lots more on the way. He has written novels, audio dramas, short stories and comics based on many popular series. He lives and works in Bristol.

  Steve Lyons’s work for Black Library includes the Space Marines audio drama The Madness Within, alongside the Imperial Guard novels Ice World and Dead Men Walking – now collected in the omnibus Honour Imperialis – and the audio drama Waiting Death. He has written numerous short stories and is currently working on more tales from the grim darkness of the far future.

  Graeme Lyon is the author of the Warhammer 40,000 short stories ‘The Carnac Campaign: Sky Hunter’, ‘From the Flames’ and ‘Kor’sarro Khan: Huntmaster’, along with the Warhammer tale ‘The Hunter’. He hails from Scotland, but now splits his time between Nottingham and Dublin. It is well documented that Graeme has a deep loathing of cheese, but makes a mean chocolate chip cookie.

  A Black Library Publication

  Plague Harvest first published in 2014.

  Engines of War first published in 2014.

  Armour of Faith first published in 2014.

  This edition published in 2016.

  This eBook edition published in Great Britain in 2016 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

  Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

  Cover illustration by Kai Lim of Imaginary Friends Studios.

  Internal illustrations by Paul Dainton and Kai Lim of Imaginary Friends Studios.

  The Plagues of Orath © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2016. The Plagues of Orath, Space Marine Battles, 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: 978-1-78572-509-8

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