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The Silent War – Extract

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An extract from 'The Purge' by Anthony Reynolds

The war had been won in twenty-seven minutes, though the battle still raged on one hundred and sixty-three days later.

Twenty-seven minutes. That had been how long it had taken for his ships to cripple the Ultramarines fleet above Percepton Primus. The enemy had not yet heard about Calth, nor of Armatura, Talassar, or any of the countless other warzones targeted as part of the Shadow Crusade.

The chronometer had clicked over, and he had given the order.

The Word Bearers struck. Over half the enemy flotilla was lost in the opening salvoes, the rest in the hours and days after. The wreckage now orbited the capital planet, the heart of this system.

Thus, the war for Percepton was won in twenty-seven minutes. In the months that followed, all that remained was to complete the cull.

One hundred and sixty-four days after that initial strike, the world of Percepton Primus ended.

132006.M31 – Terra

From orbit it was possible to see the coastlines that once delineated the continents of old Terra. The vast ocean tracts that had covered the globe were gone, vaporised during the long internecine nuke-wars that almost obliterated humanity in bygone ages, but the original shapes could still be vaguely discerned, like ghosts of the past – though most clearly in darkness.

It was the lights that revealed them. While the entire planet shone like a beacon in the void, lit by the glow of the hives, megacities and highways. The lights were brightest upon the old continents – the darker tracts of land marked where the seas had once been – or along the straight, unnaturally angular coastlines of the newer, artificial oceans.

Ethereal green aurorae shimmered over the southern horizon, while great chem-storms shrouded the rad-scarred lands to the north, flickering with an almost constant strobe of lightning. It was not in those directions that the lander was headed, however. As its golden wings unfolded and the glow of re-entry faded from its thermal shields, it angled its descent towards the very roof of the world.

Within the enclosed cabin, Sor Talgron sat alone, looking out of the viewport. One immense grey-gauntleted hand shielded his view from the shuttle’s interior illumination.

‘Refreshment, captain?’

Sor Talgron glanced away from the port. The interior of the shuttle was all gently curved surfaces, subtle lighting and neutral tones. His synth-leather seat was large enough to accommodate his oversized bulk in considerable comfort. The remaining eleven passenger seats were unoccupied, though there were others on board. Even though he could not currently see them, he could taste their gene-forged scent in the recycled air – at once familiar and yet strange – as well as sense the faint hum of their armour.

The attendant who had spoken was unnaturally tall and willowy, and her large, oval eyes were milky orbs, bereft of pupils. Gene-manipulation had given her this form, though for what purpose he could not fathom. Perhaps humans found her appearance pleasing to the eye. Perhaps they tampered with her genes simply because they could.

‘Sweet nectar? Amasec?’ she said, gesturing languidly at the refrigerated cart that hovered before her. ‘Something else?’

He shook his head and turned back towards the viewport. He saw his own reflection there, frowning back at him. While he was not sure what a human would find appealing in the soft, pale features of the shuttle attendant, he knew what they would find unattractive about his own.

His face was square and hard. Brutish. It was not the face of a scholar or a statesman. A lifetime of battle had flattened his features, and ugly scarring criss-crossed his face and scalp. His own role in the universe could not be mistaken. He was a warrior, a soldier, a killer. It was what he had been made for, a role he had been genetically altered to perform, and it was what he was good at. It was his purpose.

Servo-motors in the joints of his armour whined as he leaned in close to the glass once more, blotting out the glare and his own grim reflection. His eyes scanned the world below as the shuttle’s descent levelled. He saw the burning thrusters of golden interceptor escorts flying off the wing tip, guiding them in.

Sor Talgron stared unblinking, absorbing all that he saw. It was still some time before he would arrive at his destination, flying over the single largest man-made structure the universe had ever seen. Even so, on the very outskirts of that immense continent-spanning mega-structure, it was apparent to Sor Talgron that it was being fundamentally altered.

When he had left Terra the structure below had been a palace. He returned to find it well on the way to being transformed into a fortress.

Sor Talgron walked through fire, flanked by Ahraneth, his standard bearer, and Dal Ahk, master of signal. All three wore dark crimson armour, the colour of pooled blood. The heavy war-plate had received the new Legion colours while en route to Ultramar, but it did not sit well with him. It felt like a betrayal of the Legion’s past.

Around them, centuries of learning and wisdom were being destroyed, filling the scorched air with ash and the fluttering pages of burning books. Thousands of texts and codices were forever lost as librarium data banks were put to the torch, circuitry and silicon-based memory cores melting and crackling in the flames.

Sor Talgron did not mourn this loss.

The great chamber was filled with dust. Clearly, it had been abandoned after the Nikaea edict came into effect. It was highly probable that none had walked its halls since that time.

Until today, when it had become a battleground.

Flames licked at his pauldrons as he strode through the aftermath of the battle, coloured glass crunching underfoot. The immense glassaic windows that had looked down upon the cavernous Librarius atrium would have been an early casualty in the battle for the city of Massilea.

Bodies turned to ragged meat by bolter fire lay splattered across the floor and against the walls. Four Word Bearers were dead, dropped by kill-shots. Several others were down, being attended by the Legion’s Apothecaries. Two bore fatal injuries and were given release, their prayers dying upon their lips. The gene-seed of the dead was extracted, reductors whirring, spitting bone and blood.

A number of the fallen Ultramarines were not yet gone, but there were no XIII Legion Apothecaries to come to their aid, nor any living battle-brothers to drag them to safety. In another battalion, perhaps, their lives would have ended in torment after countless hours of agony and ritual debasement – but Sor Talgron would have none of that, and they were despatched without ceremony.

They were the enemy, and he would do everything in his power to see them defeated, utterly and completely. But he could not hate them, and he would not see them tortured needlessly.

There was much to admire about the XIII Legion. Their cohesion and discipline in battle was enviable, their execution beyond compare. They were without a doubt the most effective fighting force that Sor Talgron had ever faced, and he respected them greatly.

‘It is Erebus’ wish that every enemy taken alive be sacrificed to feed the Ruinstorm,’ Jarulek had stated at the outset of the system war. ‘This is to be done across all the Five Hundred Worlds.’

‘Erebus be damned,’ had been Sor Talgron’s response. ‘The snake does not command me. My orders are to kill this world. I will do it my way.’

He walked from the atrium, past soaring white marble pillars pocked and cratered by bolter fire. Beyond was a broad semi-circular terrace, bordered by natural stone and immaculately maintained foliage now churned to ruin. A waterfall fell into a pool in the rock, where bodies floated face down. Sweeping marble stairs descended to lower levels of the concourse.

Sor Talgron walked past a towering white statue depicting a robed figure in a thoughtful, seated pose.

An Ultramarines legionary lay on the ground. He had been cut in half by gunfire; his lower torso and legs were nearby. Blood had pooled beneath him, and his insides were spilled out onto the terrace, but he was alive. Legionaries did not die easily.

Ahraneth levelled his bolt pistol at him.

‘No,’ said Sor Talgron, and his standard bearer lowered his weapon.

The Ultramarine was of a centurion’s rank – a fellow captain, as indicated by the insignia on his shoulder plates. He was clasping his innards with one hand, trying vainly to hold them in, while with his other he was dragging himself along the ground. A volkite serpenta pistol lay nearby. He fumbled for it. Even as he died, he sought a weapon to use against his enemies.

Sor Talgron’s boot crunched down on his wrist, and he stooped to pick up the serpenta himself. He turned it over in his hands.

‘This is a good weapon,’ he said.

The Ultramarine looked up at him. His helmet was in place. A Mark IV variant, some Ultramar-localised pattern. Its once-pristine cobalt-blue surface and gold-rimmed edges were splattered with blood, rich and bright. A golden wreath had been painted around the temples, some battle honour that Sor Talgron did not recognise.

‘Why?’ asked the legionary. His voice was crackling and bled with static.

Sor Talgron placed the barrel of the volkite pistol to the Ultramarine’s visor lens, aiming it squarely into his left eye. ‘Why what?’

‘Why do you do this?’

Sor Talgron squeezed the trigger. The back of the Ultramarine’s helmet exploded, and the floor beneath lit up in flame.

‘Because I am ordered to,’ he said.

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An extract from 'The Sigillite' by Chris Wraight

Khalid Hassan sat in the antechamber, trying not to sweat, trying not to allow his hands to shake, trying to not do anything that would bring any more dishonour to his rank and regiment. He forced himself to remain still, his back against the polished marble wall. His palms pressed down onto the fabric of his ceremonial dress trousers. The high, stiff collar prickled at his neck, irritating his freshly shaved skin.

He felt ludicrous – cleaned and trimmed and starched, like a living meal to be served in some unholy banquet.

He drew in deep, regular breaths.

‘This is absurd,’ he muttered. ‘I was not wound this tight on the mission itself.’

He forced himself to go through the motions, to assess the current scenario, to run through the options.

‘Keep it together.’

The antechamber was large, just one of a series of opulent rooms he’d passed through in sequence. He had been accompanied inside by a man in a black shift and velvet shoes who had padded silently like a cat. The man had said nothing, just stared at Hassan with inscrutable, heavy-lidded eyes. He’d left him alone in the final room with a slight bow, withdrawing as sleekly as he’d arrived, closing two bronze-panelled doors with a quiet click of locks. Another pair of identical doors stood shut on the facing wall.

According to the gold-chased chrono on the mantelpiece opposite, Hassan had sat alone for seven minutes. It had felt more like an eternity.

At least the surroundings were comfortable. The air was cool and clear, filtered through shuttered windows. Hassan could hear the languid gurgle of a fountain in the courtyard outside. A low table stood in the centre, upon which rested a silver ewer, a towel and a single cut crystal glass that glinted in the soft light.

Hassan had not touched it. He had sat in the same starched position since being shown to his place by the feline steward. He had watched the play of sunlight through the shutters, smelled the floral aroma of the wood and the fabrics, listened to the quiet play of the fountain.

He had seen it. Even if this was the last thing he saw, he had still seen it. How many men could say the same?

He had seen the vision of the immortal Emperor, the handiwork of a thousand architects, the defensive masterpiece of the primarch Rogal Dorn. Viewed from the incoming lander it had been astonishing, magnificent – a sprawling fantasy of stone, adamantium, granite and gold. Defence towers jostled with observatories and terraced gardens; missile batteries and slotted bunkers thrust up tightly amid pillared libraries; burnished monuments to the pride and ambition of mankind, all picked out under the azure sky of the Himalazian peaks.

Now, lost in the heart of its vastness, listening to the calming trickle of water, he could run through the events of the past few days.

Captain Khalid Hassan of the Fourth Clandestine Orta, the most decorated of the serving officers of his regiment, a man who had loved his work so completely that he had had no life and no family outside of it, contemplated, with a certain fatality, the failure that had brought him to the Imperial Palace.

The air was hot and thick with dust. His armour – black carapace plates, full-face helm with opaque visor and rebreather tubes, environment spine-pack with internal pressure control – was coated with it. His filters were losing efficiency, and he could hear the echo of his own heavy breathing in his earpiece.

Ahead of him, blurry through night vision, he could see the compound rearing up into the dust-thick darkness. It was ugly, squat, heavy – a defensible bastion in the Gyptian style. A few lights blinked and flickered in the gloom; otherwise, it was shadowy and sullen, surrounded by a solid perimeter wall broad enough for men to walk upon it in pairs.

Hassan lay low, feeling the hardscrabble of the desert fringes press into his armour. He rested his elbows on the ridge before him. Tiny magnocular lenses slipped down the inside curve of his helm visor and whirred into focus. He moved his head fractionally, sweeping across the walls. Each visible detail was recorded and cross-referenced with the internal schematic held in his suit’s cogitator core.

Las-turret, two metres out of position. Corrected. Sentries visible, moving along perimeter boundary. They haven’t seen us.

He suppressed a smile.

And they won’t.

He heard Farouk squirm up alongside him, his body low and pressed into the dust.

‘Just say the word, captain,’ said Farouk.

‘Everyone in position?’ asked Hassan, completing the sweep.

‘All ready to go.’

Hassan uploaded the revised tactical overlays to the squad. Fifteen acknowledgement sigils scrolled down his helm display. He switched to an overhead schematic showing the positions of his men – they were located around the perimeter in five-man squads, each still in cover. Two of the three teams were on the far side of the compound from Hassan’s position, poised to attack the air defence tower and the atmospheric shield generators. Their sensor-resistant armour would keep all of them hidden. Until they broke inside, they would be all but invisible.

‘So what are we doing here, captain?’ asked Farouk.

Hassan smiled dryly. ‘Now? You ask me now?’

‘You’re not going to tell me.’

Hassan shook his head. ‘You know how it is.’

All of them knew how it was. That was the point of the Clandestine brigades: restricted orders, special taskings, operations outside the Imperial chain of command. Farouk chafed at it the most, but then he’d come from a regular Army regiment and was used to a less furtive way of war.

As for this mission, Hassan knew little enough himself. The orders had been shunted into the regiment core six days ago under heavy security cover. His men had re-routed from a routine sweep of the Collovis Hives. Ever since the insurrection had begun, subversive activity had been endemic in the bigger population hubs. Hassan had even heard chatter over the grid about rogue legionaries staging a prison break. He didn’t believe that one. There were always fanciful stories about those armour-clad superhumans; more, since the news of the Warmaster’s madness had filtered out.

In any case, Hassan didn’t place much faith in the Space Marines. They had a reputation, sure, but he doubted half of what was said about them could be true. The Imperium had been built by mortal men and woman, billions upon billions of them, toiling towards a future free from the horrors of Old Night. Genhanced monsters had no place there – they were brutal, clumsy tools and their time would pass.

Which left the way clear for more subtle weapons.

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An extract from 'Wolf Hunt' by Graham McNeill

Yasu Nagasena stands by a window of the square tower at the north-eastern corner of his mountain villa, letting the cold cut into his face. Built on the flanks of a mountain known as Cho Oyu, the villa has been his home for fifty years, and memories surround him like restless ghosts. Mournful winds from the far corners of the world sigh through the tower, each bearing the sound of pounding hammers, a billion migrant voices and the fear of an entire planet.

The mountains crowd this continent, rowdy giants standing shoulder to shoulder as they reach to the heavens. Sunlight spills over them in a golden tide, gleaming from the exposed quartz and feldspar.

The mountains are saying goodbye, giving him a last sight of their glory.

The villa occupies a fortuitous position, looking out over the Palace at the crown of the world. Through the windows, he can see its triumphal processionals, its high towers and its fresh-wrought defences. Beyond the Palace walls, the Petitioners’ City. Once a place of pilgrimage, now an overcrowded slum of people desperately seeking protection.

Nagasena turns from the window. The wooden stretching frame still sits here, undisturbed since he last let his heart bleed out through his brushstrokes. The silk is still strung to the frame, still taut and bearing his painted image of the Palace.

It no longer looks like the Palace visible through the windows.

The Emperor is remaking the galaxy, but Rogal Dorn is remaking the Palace.

Once it was a thing of beauty, but it is ugly now, the craft of the engineer pasted over the vision of the architect.

‘It is not a harmonious union, Lord Dorn,’ says Nagasena, surprising himself by speaking aloud.

He has spoken little since the end of his hunt for the escaped warriors of the Crusader Host. What began as a hunt ended in sanctioned murder, and he does not yet know whether the truth was served by its execution.

Nagasena hears the slap of sandals on the marbled stairs, accompanied by the heaving breath of Amita. She has maintained his household for as long as he has lived here, and is as robust and solid as the mountains.

Amita reaches the top of the tower, her skin ruddy from the climb and strands of grey-streaked hair hanging loose over her face. She frowns at Nagasena’s clothes – a lacquered breastplate of black and bronze, reinforced canvas leggings tucked into leather-faced boots. But something has changed within him since his return from the Petitioners’ City and she lets his improper attire pass without comment.

‘You asked to see me?’ she asks.

He nods, looking back down over the sprawling immensity of the Palace. Far below, a towering siege Titan is lifting vast ouslite blocks from the Dhawalagiri elevation, the workmanship too precious to be destroyed or built over. He wonders if that stone will ever see the light of day again.

‘Yes, I have something to give you,’ says Nagasena.

‘Here?’ replies Amita.

‘No,’ says Nagasena. ‘In my private chambers.’

‘You couldn’t have summoned me there instead of making me climb all these stairs?’

‘My apologies, Amita,’ says Nagasena. ‘I lingered here longer than I intended.’

‘That doesn’t make my old bones feel any better.’

Nagasena smiles. In any other household, Amita’s brusqueness would see her dismissed, but her blunt honesty matches his adherence to the truth over all things.

‘Have I been a good master to serve?’ he asks.

Nagasena likes the fact that she takes the time to think about her answer instead of simply voicing a platitude.

‘You have always been courteous and grateful. The staff think you cold, but you are just sorrowful. More so now.’

Nagasena nods. It is a fair assessment.

‘Come with me,’ he says, moving past her to begin the long descent of the tower. Amita follows, and they emerge into the rose garden where he wishes he could have spent more time.

They follow the hypaethral around the garden and into the well-proportioned chambers of the villa. He cannot call it his home, not any more. Not now that Lord Dorn has charged him with this last hunt.

He opens the doors to his private chambers, and beckons Amita to enter. She reluctantly follows him within, barely registering the silk hanging scrolls depicting ancient maps of long-forgotten realms: Atlantea, Hyperborea and Dalriada.

Nagasena makes his way to shelves laden with papers and heavy textbooks. He pulls out a wax-sealed document and sits cross-legged behind his narrow desk. Writing implements are arranged neatly on its polished surface and he beckons Amita to sit as he breaks the seal.

Nagasena dips a sharpened eagle feather in a pot of ink and signs his name at the bottom of the document. He turns the paper around and holds the quill out to Amita.

‘Sign your name next to mine and you will be the owner of this villa,’ he says.

‘You’re giving me the villa?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’ she asks.

‘You have more than earned it.’

Amita does not reach for the quill.

‘You are going on another hunt?’ she asks.

‘I am,’ he confirms, placing the quill on the desk.

He rises smoothly and runs his hand over the wall behind him in a series of complex gestures. It slides back, revealing a deep compartment filled with gleaming armour and racked weapons. It is an armoury worthy of a Legion quartermaster.

‘Who is it this time?’

Nagasena removes a hand-tooled long-las and a silver-chased volkite pistol, weapons capable of harming the man he is to hunt. These are not implements of pursuit and capture, but execution.

‘A Luna Wolf.’

‘A warrior of the Legions?’

‘A warrior of Horus’ Legion,’ clarifies Nagasena.

He slings the long-las over his shoulder and holsters the pistol before reverently lifting a scabbard of lacquered wood, jade and mother of pearl from a rack of rich cherrywood. The sword’s handle is wound in leather of the palest cream and its blade was crafted with love and an attention to detail that no machine will ever replicate.

Nagasena knows the weapon as Shoujiki.

‘You do not expect to return,’ she says.

‘A reasonable expectation,’ he says.

‘Who gives you this hunt?’

‘Lord Dorn.’

She nods, knowing Nagasena could not have refused a primarch’s order.

‘If I am to die on this hunt, I do not wish to leave loose ends in my wake. The villa is to be yours. This is my wish.’

Amita pushes the document away. ‘If I am told you are dead, I will sign it, but not before.’

Nagasena is humbled by her fierce devotion and belts Shoujiki around his waist. His hand settles naturally on the textured grip.

‘Sign it,’ he says softly. ‘Even if I kill this man, I do not think I will return.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because the mountains have said goodbye,’ says Nagasena.

Amita nods, accepting his cryptic answer.

‘This Luna Wolf, does he have a name?’ she asks.

‘His name is Severian,’ says Nagasena.

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A Black Library Publication

Army of One first published as an eBook in 2012.
The Gates of Terra first published in Games Day France chapbook in 2012.
Distant Echoes of Old Night first published in Games Day Anthology 2012/2013.
Lost Sons first published in Black Library Weekender Anthology in 2012.
Grey Angel first published as an audio drama in 2012.
The Sigillite and Wolf Hunt first published as audio dramas in 2013.
Luna Mendax first published in Black Library Anthology in 2013.
The Purge first published as a hardback novella in 2014.
Templar and The Watcher first published as audio dramas in 2014.
Child of Night first published as an eBook in 2014.
Ghosts Speak Not and Patience first published as eBooks in 2016.
Hardback edition first published in 2016.
This eBook edition published in 2016 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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ISBN: 978-1-78572-212-7

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