Hammer and Bolter Year One

by Christian Dunn

  He shook his head, trying to clear it. He could hear the gentle rumble of the river in the distance, somewhere past the crooked, close-set pines of the forest. The beastman pawed the ground and snorted. Some of them, it was said, could speak. This one showed no such inclination. Instead, it lunged clumsily, swinging its crude axe towards Goetz.

  Still on one knee, Goetz guided the blow aside with a twist of his wrist, and countered with his own weak thrust. The beastman stumbled back with an annoyed bleat as his sword sliced a patch of rusty mail from its cuirass. It was larger than the others, larger than Goetz himself by more inches than he cared to consider. Its axe was so much hammered scrap, but no less dangerous for that. It was strong too. Muscles like smooth stones moved under its porous, hairy hide as it swung the blade up again and brought it down towards Goetz’s head. He caught the blow on his sword and grunted at the weight. Equal parts adrenaline and terror helped him surge to his feet, shoving the creature back. Weapons locked, they strained against one another. Goetz blinked as the weird runes scratched into the creature’s axe-blade seemed to squirm beneath his gaze. Its smell, like a slaughterhouse on a hot day, bit into his sinuses and made it hard to breath. Goetz kicked out, catching the creature’s knee. It howled and staggered, and they broke apart.

  Steady on his feet now, Goetz stepped back, raising his sword. The beastman clutched its weapon in both hands and gave a throaty snarl. Teeth bared, it bulled towards him. Despite his guard, the edge of the axe skidded across Goetz’s breastplate, dislodging the ornaments of his order and the ribbons of purity he wore in order to announce his status as a novice of the Order of the Blazing Sun. Sparks flew as northern iron met Imperial steel, and Goetz found himself momentarily off balance. The beastman was quick to capitalise. It crashed against him, clawed hand scrabbling at his helm, trying to shove his head back to expose his throat even as it flailed at him awkwardly with its axe.

  Smashing the hilt of his sword against its skull, Goetz thrust his forearm against its throat and forced the snapping jaws away from him. They fell, locked together, and rolled across the ground, struggling. Goetz lost hold of his sword, but managed to snatch his dagger from his belt. He drove it into the beastman’s side, angling the blade up, aiming for the heart, his old fencing teacher’s admonitions ringing in his mind. The beastman squealed in pain and clawed at him. He closed his eyes and forced the blade in deeper, ignoring the crunch of bone and the hot wet foulness that gushed suddenly over his gauntlet.

  The creature’s struggles grew weaker and weaker until they stopped completely. It expired with a whimper, its limbs flopping down with a relieving finality. Breathing heavily, Goetz pushed the dead weight off of himself and stared up at the stars dancing between the talon-like branches of the pines. The sky seemed to spin.

  Grimacing, he climbed to his feet and snatched up his fallen brand. Staggering, he moved towards the mass, which seemed to quiver at his approach. The stink grew heavier, almost solid. He caught a glimpse of bones scattered around it, and in the light of the fire he though he saw something floating within. Something that turned in its bloated womb to look at him with eyes like open wounds.

  Deep in the woods, something was being born. Something horrible and beautiful. A whisper of sound caressed his ears, and a lovely voice spoke to him, making promises and predictions. A sweet smell, like sugar on ice tickled his nose, and he hesitated.

  What had he been doing? What–

  ‘Sir knight!’ Lothar roared, lunging past him with his hatchet. The forester struck the thing with the weapon and the hum screamed forth, bringing blood to Goetz’s ears and nose and he bit into his tongue. Screams rose from behind him, but he ignored them, ignored Lothar, ignored it all and concentrated on shoving the burning brand into the sticky foulness. The flames caught quickly and he fell back, coughing as the hum rose to a shrill shrieking whine that seemed to shake the entire clearing.

  The promises were gone, swept away by the begging, the pleading notes that sank insidiously into his brain. He slashed at the quivering burning mass with berserk abandon, ignoring the ichors that splashed him and ate into his armour. Ignoring the shrieks that tore at his soul.

  The whine faded as he turned away and fell to his knees, leaning on his sword. Goetz looked tiredly at the surviving captives, who squatted in a huddle nearby. They all looked unharmed, save for exhaustion and fear.

  ‘You’re safe,’ he croaked. ‘We’ve come to take you home. Lothar, get–’ He turned, spotting Lothar’s body lying nearby, his sightless eyes locked on the stars above. Goetz paused, but only for a moment. He pushed himself to his feet and began to rasp orders to his surviving troops.

  They would burn the dead. Better than interring them in the foul earth of this place. As he watched his men get to work, Goetz sat wearily on a charred stump. He finally understood why the hochmeister had smiled so sadly that day. There were some bridges that needed burning and some walls that needed shattering, but the cost of doing so was always going to be high.

  ‘We go where we are needed. We do what must be done,’ Goetz whispered, as he watched bodies get thrown on the pyre and thought of bridges, and the men who built them.

  The Inquisition

  ++Open vox-net++

  My most esteemed Lord Inquisitor,

  Though the chase was long and cost the lives of several of my retinue, the traitor going by the name Rob Sanders is now within my grasp. Here is the intelligence we have gleaned from him thus far.

  Interrogator Kerstromm, Ordo Malleus

  What are you working on at the moment?

  I’m currently working on a Space Marines Battles novel called Legion of the Damned. The short stories ‘The Long Games at Carcharias’ in Victories of the Space Marines and ‘The Iron Within’ in the Horus Heresy Anthology Age of Darkness were baptisms of fire for me. They were important for showing what I could do with the Adeptus Astartes – and what they could do for me. To be honest, before writing for the Space Marines, I don’t think that I fully appreciated their range – in terms of character, culture and narrative possibility. It was this realisation that led me to pitch Legion of the Damned for the Space Marines Battles series. As you can imagine, the Legion of the Damned need a slightly different approach to most Chapters!

  What are you working on next?

  Next up will be my contribution for The Primarchs Horus Heresy novella compilation. There I shall be sharing pages with HH alumni Nick Kyme, Gav Thorpe and Graham McNeill . I’m pretty thrilled at the prospect and am looking forward to getting inside the inner workings and mindset of the Alpha Legion and their Primarch(s). I’m already a big fan of the Alpha Legion and can’t wait to build on some of Dan Abnett’s excellent work in the Horus Heresy novel Legion, while at the same time exploring exciting new aspects to Alpharius / Omegon’s rather unique participation in the Heresy...

  Are there any areas of Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 that you haven’t yet explored that you’d like to in the future?

  There are simply too many to choose. The Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 settings are incredibly fertile. My first piece of fiction for Black Library was a Warhammer short story called ‘The Cold Light of Day’, so I am very comfortable pitching ideas in the Old World. It is in the 40K universe that I think the imagination is really let off the leash: so many worlds and so much ‘history’. I’ve started exploring the Imperial Guard in Redemption Corps and the Inquisition in Atlas Infernal. As far as 40K is concerned, something from a Chaos / Chaos Marines perspective would certainly suit my twisted vision of the universe. The Tau interest me also. I’d love to write about a captain in the Imperial navy. I’d go on for pages like this. I’ve been very fortunate with my pitches in the past. I do like a challenge, though. If I was asked to write a novel about a one-legged, Halfling sewer worker beneath the Kislevite city of Praag, I’d like to think that I could make it work. There you go: already thinking about what that Halfling might encounter down there.

  What are you reading at the
moment? Who are your favourite authors?

  Favourite authors? It might seem obligatory to say the Black Library writers but in truth despite only having the absolute pleasure of meeting many of them recently, I’ve spent years with a good number of them in print. My wider reading tastes extend to the more literary. I teach literature, so many of the classics push my buttons. In terms of authors doing the business today, I’d have to say Alex Garland, Margaret Atwood and David Mitchell are amongst my favourites.

  What am I reading? I don’t read like a normal person. I tend to have a number of books on the go at the same time. I leave books all over my house in various stages of completion and let them call out to me as I pass. I’m in the middle of re-reading the Horus Heresy series and re-loving them. Listening to - James Swallow’s brilliant Garro adventures. I bought one of my sons Jonathan Green’s Fighting Fantasy gamebook Bloodbones for Christmas and now that he has completed it I find myself rolling the dice. In brief non-fiction bursts, Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Everything. I’m also slowly getting through Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Complete Sherlock Holmes. I’ve nearly completed The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo but appear to have lost it. Can anyone tell me what happens in the end? What else? Of course, I get the brilliant Hammer and Bolter every month : )

  Which book (either BL or non-BL) do you wish you’d written and why?

  Good question. To which I’m going to have to cheat and ignore the ‘or’. I wish I’d written the Eisenhorn trilogy by Dan Abnett. For me, beyond having a great story and engaging characters, Eisenhorn leant the Warhammer 40,000 universe a texture that many Black Library novels that followed (including my own) have benefitted from. The tabletop game and the wonderful artwork that goes hand in hand with the setting contribute to this but I revel in the details that are layered into the Eisenhorn novels. Good job, Dan! The non-BL book that I really wish I’d written is Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell, simply because it is a work of genius. Clever and entertaining; experimental and popular – how many authors can pull that off?

  Phalanx

  Ben Counter

  Chapter 7

  ‘And what,’ said Captain Borganor of the Howling Griffons, ‘does this excuse?’

  The court was not as vocal as it had been after Varnica’s evidence. Instead, it simmered. The Howling Griffons murmured oaths and spat on the ground. The Imperial Fists tried to stay impartial but they could not keep the disdain from their faces as N’Kalo’s testimony had come to an end. Reinez had fought to remain silent, eyes closed, face downturned and grim.

  ‘How many of my battle-brothers does this return from their tombs?’ continued Borganor. ‘The Soul Drinkers intervened in some backwater spat. What does this say about them? They still fought the Imperial divine right. All they have achieved to tickle Commander N’Kalo’s sense of righteousness is the deliverance of one band of savages to Throne knows what fate. Are we to absolve Sarpedon of my own brethren’s fall? Will someone speak for the Howling Griffons?’

  ‘Or for the Crimson Fists?’ interjected Reinez. ‘What have the Eshkeen done to earn a voice in this court? Every one of my fallen brothers is worth a thousand times the heathens the Soul Drinkers saved!’

  ‘If I may,’ interrupted Gethsemar of the Angels Sanguine, ‘I feel I can shed a little more light on the matters pertinent to the fate of the Soul Drinkers.’

  ‘What could you say, you gilded peacock?’ spat Reinez.

  ‘Reinez, you will yield the floor!’ demanded Chapter Master Vladimir.

  ‘What has his kind suffered at Sarpedon’s hand?’ retorted Reinez. ‘He comes here for nothing more than the spectacle of this mutant! This is entertainment for him! He treats the sacred ground of the Phalanx like a sideshow!’

  ‘Your objections,’ said Vladimir coldly, ‘are noted. Commander Gethsemar, say your piece.’

  Gethsemar waited a moment, as if to ensure that all the attention of the court was on him. The mask he wore now had no tears, and the forehead and cheeks were inscribed with High Gothic text. ‘Indeed, my piece is more relevant than any of the protestations Captain Reinez has yet made,’ he said. ‘And I feel that few will recall words more incandescent in this matter than those I have to say now.’

  ‘Get on with it, you popinjay,’ muttered Reinez.

  ‘The Sanguinary Priests of my order,’ continued Gethsemar, ‘have long conducted studies into the link between the gene-seed every Space Marine carries within him and the blessed flesh of our primarchs, after whose characteristics the gene-seed of the original eighteen Legions was modelled. Indeed, much had been revealed to us of holy Sanguinius, the father of our own Chapter, and thus we gain revelations of him that steel our souls on the eve of battle. It so happened that the Angels Sanguine came into possession of a sample of gene-seed originating from the Soul Drinkers Chapter, delivered unto us in the hope that we could ascertain if their rebellion was founded in a corruption of such gene-seed.’

  ‘Where did you get it from?’ said Sarpedon. ‘Which brother of mine supplied it?’

  ‘No brother of yours, I fear,’ said Gethsemar. ‘It was given to us by the Soul Drinker to whom it belonged, one who had defied your usurping of the Chapter’s command and sought, through Inquisitorial means, a way to exact his revenge.’

  ‘Michairas,’ said Sarpedon bleakly. ‘I thought I had killed him. I did so at the second time of asking, on Stratix Luminae. I underestimated my old novice. He still tries for revenge, even after death.’

  ‘And he has it,’ continued Gethsemar. ‘Space Marines of the court, Lord Justice, the Sanguinary Priests went about their research in the expectation that they would find the blueprint of Rogal Dorn’s own flesh as the starting point for the Soul Drinkers’ gene-seed. But they did not.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Sarpedon.

  ‘I am saying that Rogal Dorn is not your primarch,’ said Gethsemar simply. ‘I cannot say who is. The Sanguinary Priests have yet to complete their discourses on the matter. But Dorn’s gene-seed is among the most stable and recognisable of all those among the Adeptus Astartes, and there can be no doubt that the Soul Drinkers do not possess it. This is the news I came to the Phalanx to deliver. That is why the Angels Sanguine sought a place at this court.’

  Sarpedon pushed against his restraints, half-clambering out of the accused’s pulpit. ‘No!’ he yelled. ‘You have taken everything from us! Our freedom! Our war! You will not take away Rogal Dorn!’

  ‘The defendant will be silent!’ yelled Vladimir, above the sound of dozens of bolt pistols being drawn. Every weapon in the dome was being aimed then at Sarpedon, in case he burst through his restraints to do violence to Gethsemar. Lysander stood between Sarpedon and Gethsemar, ready to slam Sarpedon into the ground if he showed any signs of breaking free.

  Reinez did not move. He had seen all the damage done to Sarpedon that could be done. For the first time since he had come to the Phalanx, there was a smirk on his face.

  Brother Sennon limped through the Atoning Halls, barely drawing a glance from the Soul Drinkers who sat in its cells, chained to the walls waiting for a decision to be made in the Observatory of Dornian Majesty. The news of Daenyathos’s survival had left them as confused as elated. The Philosopher-Soldier’s presence there had been brief, a few seconds, before the Dreadnought had been sealed away, and now none of the Soul Drinkers could be completely sure they had seen him at all. Their minds were occupied as the single pilgrim walked down the corridor.

  Two Imperial Fists walked behind him as guards, but Sennon looked in more danger from his own health than from the Soul Drinkers. His skin was bluish and sweating, his eyes rimmed with red, his shoulders slumped as if he could barely hold up his own weight. His breath was a painful wheeze.

  He passed the cell where Sergeant Salk was held. The sergeant was exhausted, his arms bruised from forcing against his restraints long past the point where it was obvious he would not break free. Other Soul Drinkers were in prayer or simply at rest, half their mind
s shut off while the other half watched, a Space Marine’s habit made possible by the catalepsean node each had implanted between the hemispheres of his brain. The Soul Drinkers had been fed by regular servitor rounds, but that was the sole concession made to their comfort. Since Daenyathos had been sealed away they had been silent, every one contemplating his situation in his own way, eager for news of Sarpedon and the trial but unwilling to beg their Imperial Fists captors for it.

  One cell held Chaplain Iktinos. This cell had been sealed, so no other Soul Drinker could see or hear the Chaplain. Iktinos’s rhetoric was considered one of the biggest threats to keeping the Soul Drinkers captive, and so a steel plate had been welded over the bars of his cell. The Soul Drinkers who had made up his flock, those who had lost their officers and gone to Iktinos for leadership, had been spread out through the Atoning Halls to minimise their ability to conspire. Sennon passed the sealed cell and touched it with two fingers, murmuring a prayer for Iktinos’s soul.

  Sennon halted at Captain Luko’s cell, and knelt on the floor.

  ‘Take care,’ said Luko. ‘You don’t look like you could get up again.’

  ‘I have come to pray for you,’ said Sennon.