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Exodus – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Exodus

Steve Lyons

There was fresh fruit in the governor’s palace.

It lay in a bowl on a glass-topped table in the tiled reception area, each piece a ripe, unblemished specimen.

The soldier had never seen such perfect fruit. He had never set foot in the governor’s palace before. Arch Teilloch was a private in the Home Guard, as his forefathers had been before him. At twenty-four years old, he had known no other life save this one of discipline and duty. He was here to escort a high-ranking clerk out of the building.

The clerk was attended by numerous serfs carrying cases and pushing trolleys laden with crates. These were filled with data-slates, upon which vital records were preserved. The cases bulged with fine clothes or clinked with glittering trinkets, though the clerk seemed more protective of the latter.

Teilloch’s squad, four-strong, encircled their venerable charge. Their booted footsteps rang off mosaic tiles to echo around flickering chandeliers. For all the urgent activity, Teilloch was struck by how peaceful this place was. The air was artificially clean and cool. Few people spoke, and only in reverent whispers. Not even the tremor he felt through the soles of his boots could disturb the pervading calm. The foundations of the palace were sturdy enough to absorb it.

The travails of the past few months felt a long way away.

Then, Teilloch stepped through a door – and the smoke, grit, heat and noise of the outside world struck him in the face.

The sky was a bloody shade of red, shot through with sooty plumes from many fires across the city. A fleet of groundcars sat with engines rumbling, exhaust pipes pumping out more fumes. Beyond these, an angry mob strained against a line of Home Guard troopers in orange and blue.

It was the job of Teilloch’s squad to get their clerk to a car. On Corporal Barnard’s orders, the four of them went ahead, descending a short, metallic staircase. On their helmets and flak jackets, they bore the impacts of eggs, bottles and other crude missiles. Teilloch could not understand the protestors. ‘Have we not all suffered enough,’ he complained to his nearest comrade, ‘without turning on each other?’

Another bottle, half-filled with promethium with a smouldering fuse, sailed past his left ear. He saw it too late to duck and was lucky it hadn’t been better aimed. The bottle burst harmlessly against the wall. Troopers tried to fight their way towards the bomber, but the crowd closed ranks against them. A scrawny-looking private found himself dragged under, punched and kicked.

Another, stronger tremor stole Teilloch’s footing. He stumbled down the last of the steps, turning an ankle under him.

Some protestors, thrown by the quake, had burst through the Home Guard line. The soldiers responded, as trained, with lethal force. Teilloch heard the cracks of a dozen autoguns as Private Alvado – an older and more muscular man than he – helped him up. His ankle throbbed but wasn’t broken.

They bundled their charge into his vehicle and slammed the door behind him. Barnard ordered his squad to stand sentry as the serfs loaded up their master’s luggage. Teilloch was glad that he had never earned his stripes. The crowd was louder and more defiant than ever. He felt as if their howls might split open his head. He wouldn’t have known what to do, had he not had orders to follow.

Standing rigid, he closed his eyes for a moment. He tried to recall the cool peace of the governor’s palace, but already it felt like a dream of another world. He could not imagine fruit growing here.

This was his home: a world badly wounded, crying out in pain and despair. A world, Arch Teilloch feared, that was entering its death throes.

Katraxis was doomed.

No one was saying it yet, at least in public, but Ven Mikkelson had little doubt of it. The Second Tyrannic War was over – but tendrils of the defeated Hive Fleet Kraken survived. One of them, lashing out vengefully, had struck this planet.

The industrial part of the city was quiet, though vandals and looters had recently passed this way. Obscene graffiti, some of it blasphemous, defaced factorum walls. Glass crunched beneath the boots of a quintet of Imperial Guardsmen as they marched in double-time along the desolate streets. They were members of the Valhallan 132nd regiment. Ice Warriors, they called themselves, famed for their tenacity against overwhelming odds.

They were running away.

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A Black Library Publication

First published in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustrations by Phil Moss.

Exodus © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2017. Exodus, 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.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78572-827-3

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

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