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For Glory and Honour – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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I

The conclave chamber rose from atop the highest spire of Hive Angelicus. Circular in shape and with arched entrances at its four compass points, the chamber’s lower level boasted klarwood panelling, brushed-copper flooring and artfully underlit armaglass cases in which were displayed symbolic relics of the planet’s proud history. Here, an ancient pattern of mining laser hung in a suspensor field. There, rough-hewn chunks of enderrium ore orbited lazily around one another, their crimson sheen the only hint of their capacity to be refined into superior-quality las-cells. Cases contained hovering arrangements of human skulls, polished until they glinted and inscribed in flowing gothic script with the names of greater mining clans.

These last macabre relics were intended to remind all who passed them of the sacrifices made by the countless generations of miners who had lived and died on the planet of Ghyre. By their noble sacrifice is our world made mighty, read the High Gothic inscription around the base of each cabinet-reliquary. Imperial Fists Sergeant Torgan marched between the cabinets with Brother Unctor at his side. He snorted as he glanced at the words proudly etched into the brass.

‘Always you do that, brother-sergeant,’ said Unctor, keeping his voice low. ‘Why?’

‘Where in a life of ignorant menial labour is there nobility or sacrifice, Brother Unctor?’ asked Torgan. ‘Roofs over their heads, nutrient gruel to fill their bellies, labour to occupy their hours and entire decades of life shielded behind bastions and warriors whose existence they barely perceive. These people know little of sacrifice and less still of nobility.’

‘As I understand it, the miners’ lives are hard and short,’ said Brother Unctor. ‘Without their labours the munitions shrines of forge world Shallethrax would swiftly fall silent. These people bleed for their Imperium as we do. They do their part, in their own limited fashion.’

‘Once, perhaps, but do they still?’ asked Sergeant Torgan.

‘That is the responsibility of those in the chamber above us,’ said Unctor.

‘On that we agree, brother. Let us see if they have stopped their banal bickering long enough to do their duty.’ Torgan led the way to the foot of one of the two brass-and-armaglass ramps that rose in a helical spiral from the lower level, through the mezzanine floor and into the upper chamber where the ruling conclave of Ghyre convened. He marched up the ramp between the burning braziers flanking it. As he advanced, angry voices floated down to greet him. He shot a sour glance back at Unctor, whose graven features gave away nothing.

‘…and I would remind the honoured high administrator once again that Ghyre supports eleven full regiments of airborne infantry, all of whom are trained and equipped to the highest standard that Prime Clan Kallistus can afford!’ Torgan recognised the deep and cultured tones of High Marshal Anthonius Kallistus. ‘That is to say nothing of the copious squadrons of dedicated fighter pilots who wait by their craft for the slightest sign of invasion or malfeasance, the teeming ranks of the hive militias and the exceptionally capable Enforcers under First Arbitrator Verol.’ The high marshal paused, his attention drawn to Torgan and his brother. ‘Ah! And here we see the crowning glory, our very own honour guard of Imperial Fists Adeptus Astartes!’

As Torgan emerged into the upper chamber, he saw Marshal Anthonius standing behind his podium and pointing triumphantly in his direction. He did not deign to respond to the man’s words, though Anthonius’ presumption caused him a familiar flare of irritation. The conclave of Ghyre stood in a circle around the room, each counsellor bathed by soft lumen that illuminated them, their gaggles of aides, scribes and hangers-on, and the carved stone podia that announced their titles. Torgan took in the great and good of Ghyre – the dashing High Marshal Kallistus, commander of the Ghyrish Airborne regiments, the spare and glowering High Administrator Jessamine Lunst, who the marshal had been haranguing, and the stocky, steely-haired First Arbitrator Mariah Verol, whose support the man was clearly hoping to win.

Lurking like a giant mechanical spider to Torgan’s right was Magos Geologis Mendel Gathabosis, while to his left he noted Bishop Lotimer Renwyck standing humble and unassuming in a street preacher’s hooded cassock.

He alone had not a single scribe or bodyguard at his side.

More figures stood further back and higher up the chamber’s curving walls, between jutting sculptures of human skeletons that brandished mining tools and burning promethium torches. These were the lords and ladies of the greater clans Delve, Tectos and VanSappen, and the two haughty spire lords Agnathio Trost of Hive Klaratos and Yenshi Hal of Hive Mastracha.

Higher still, seated upon a huge throne of brass and stone and trunked wires that jutted from the chamber’s upper wall, was Governor Osmyndri Ellisentris Kallistus XXI. Elegant and regal, she held the sceptre of office that marked her as the planetary governor of Ghyre and the ritual gilded pick that denoted her rulership of Angelicus Hive and all the mining clans who dwelt within and below it. She wore the crisply pressed and medal-laden uniform of the Supreme Air Marshal of Ghyre, which Torgan knew she had earned; the governor had been quite the ace pilot behind the controls of a Lightning fighter, skills that reputedly she had never allowed to atrophy. At her shoulder, lashed securely to a metal platform on the side of her throne, hunched the governor’s ageing seneschal, a man called Gryft.

Above them all a half-finished mural of the Emperor glowered down in judgement. For thousands of years that ceiling had been a stained-armaglass dome that had looked out upon the stratospheric blue and star-studded black of Ghyre’s skies. The night sky had been poisoned, now. Those who looked too long upon the tainted stars ran mad. A hurried edict had seen the armaglass slathered with layers of black paint to preserve the precious minds of Ghyre’s ruling elite, and work had begun to paint a fresh fresco of the Emperor enthroned. It was only half done, but already Torgan’s superior eyesight could pick out where the paint was blistering and peeling as though assaulted from without.

The skies, it seemed, resented being shut out. The Rift would not be ignored.

Torgan marched across the concave floor of the upper chamber, performed a smart about-face before the stanchions that held aloft the governor’s throne and brought his boltgun up across his chest with a clang. Unctor fell in beside him, and the two Imperial Fists stood, eyes front, still as statues carved from granite.

‘The conclave welcomes Brother-Sergeant Torgan and Brother Unctor of the Imperial Fists Fifth Company,’ croaked Seneschal Gryft, his words amplified by his throat augmetics to echo around the chamber. Quill-fingered adepts clustered around High Administrator Lunst wrote in perfect synchronicity, the combined scritch of nib on parchment a harsh susurrus. Their mistress waited a moment longer to be sure that neither Torgan nor the first arbitrator was about to speak in support of Marshal Kallistus. Satisfied, she drew herself up to her full, considerable height, and her ocular implants flashed.

‘We here assembled are all aware of the military strength of Ghyre’s defensive regiments, high marshal,’ she said. Her voice was clipped, her consonants hard, like the struck keys of a cogitator. ‘However, what we have seen in the last two cycles has been unprecedented. Might I first remind you that those cycles themselves must now be estimated by digital choristry and astro-sidereal comparative augury, since the…’ She paused, clearly searching for the most appropriate phrase. ‘Malign phenomena have rendered the traditional marking of the days impossible. Article the first…’

The high administrator held out a hand without looking.

A scroll thumped into it, proffered from behind by one of her many adepts. As it always did, the sound caused a muscle beneath Torgan’s right eye to twitch with annoyance. He knew what came next.

Lunst unrolled the scroll in a puff of dust and read aloud. ‘The conclave to be reminded of the epidemic of dark omens, dire portents, doomsayers, nightmares, mutational degeneracy and unsanctioned zealotry throughout Hives Angelicus, Klaratos and Mastracha and their dependent mining complexes that commenced on cycle eighty-eight thousand, nine hundred and sixty-four, sub-cycle eight-six-one, and has proceeded with no signs of abatement or remission.’

‘I would remind the high administrator that my arbitrators have contained and quelled a record quotient of civil disturbances within the last cycle alone,’ said First Arbitrator Verol, her voice stern and hard as iron.

‘The conclave to record that neither offence nor criticism was intended by my utterances,’ said the high administrator, sounding singularly unapologetic. Again, that muscle twitched beneath Torgan’s eye.

‘They believe themselves to be sparring within some gladiatorial ring,’ he murmured so quietly only his brother would hear. Torgan briefly imagined how these preening fools would look caught amidst the gunfire and mayhem of a real battlefield, and the thought brought him some small comfort.

Lunst furled the scroll with a snap.

‘Article two,’ she proceeded, another scroll thumping into her hand and unfurling in front of her. ‘The conclave to take note of the severe disruption to the planet’s astropathic conclave and the plethora of confirmed and suppressed malefic manifestations across Ghyre in the sub-cycles since the astrological phenomena appeared in the night sky.

‘Article three.’

Snap, thump.

‘The conclave to consider the substantial disruption to intra- and inter-system shipping that we have seen in the last cycle, the reported faltering of the holy Astronomican and the prolonged period, only now beginning to abate, of astropathic silence from any planet or other Imperial void-borne installation beyond Ghyre’s immediate stellar vicinity. The conclave to consider before passing judgement in this matter that we still do not possess the requisite corroborated data to fully comprehend what this period of sidereal and stellar disruption represents, or what it might presage.’

So much posturing, so much hemming and hawing, thought Torgan. How the Chapter can call watching over this dusty flock of peacocks an honour, Dorn only knows.

‘Article four.’

Snap, thump.

‘The conclave to note the, to date, twenty-three per cent net reduction in mining output and efficiency from the clan mining complexes that–’

‘Amendment. The reduction in efficiency was last cogitated at twenty-two point eight seven two per cent,’ came the grating voice of Magos Geologis Gathabosis, overriding by sheer volume the high administrator’s report. ‘Servitor mining units and all blessed geoexcavational machineries continue to operate within previously decreed tolerances. Fault lies with biological components. Exponential increase in predatory fauna growth of eighteen point four per cent since astrological phenomena manifestation. All appropriate measures and binharic prayers have been applied to the macro-purgation firethrowers to hold back hostile flora and fauna variables, but effectiveness has been reduced by a variable degree across the northern continental landmass.’

‘So you’re saying it’s the jungle’s fault for growing more quickly?’ asked High Marshal Kallistus disparagingly.

‘Correction. Needless oversimplification of a complex biological variable intended to undermine and make ridiculous my logical conclusions. Comment discarded as irrelevant sociopolitical manoeuvring,’ responded the magos. Torgan had to fight to keep the corner of his mouth from quirking up. ‘Further and more substantial biological component failure observed amongst labour units of the mining clans. Moral dissolution, underperformance, extraneous social exchange and increased behavioural divergence from allocated duties noted as a detrimental variable throughout eighty-three per cent of clan labour forces,’ finished Gathabosis, and Torgan’s ghost of a smile was banished.

Whispers of the unrest amongst the miners had reached his ears through contacts he and the previous honour guard sergeants had cultivated over the years. What he had been unable to gauge was whether the increasing civil unrest amongst the planet’s labouring class was due to the massive increase in warp storm activity and the concurrent malign disturbances of the planet’s populace or whether some other moral rot was spreading. He felt that old, familiar itch in his trigger finger, and not for the first time wished he had an honest foe to turn his bolter upon.

Perhaps it had taken root before any of this began, before he and his squad even came to Ghyre – Torgan had seen the rise of Chaos cults before, had put them down himself with bolt and blade. He would suffer no such failure of the Imperial system while he stood watch.

It seemed that the representatives of the great clans had unpicked the criticisms implicit in the magos’ rambling spiel. Lord Dostos Delve leaned forward over his podium, his jewelled rings clinking against the stone, his thick black brows drawn down beneath his heavy cowl.

‘Clan Delve continues to labour as hard for the Imperium as we always have!’ he barked. ‘It can hardly be the fault of my people if the jungle is allowed to close off the mine trails and encroach upon the pit heads! What you call behavioural divergence is simply my folk forming militias so that they might protect themselves from coilthorn and the mist-beasts when your skitarii overseers vanish into their bunkers without a word. Let the conclave be aware that we have lost twenty-six miners in the last sub-cycle alone to being burned by the magos’ macro-purgators while trying to fight back the jungle!’

Even the laxest of Astra Militarum regiments can lose that many soldiers in the space of a heartbeat, yet here you are bellowing and beating your chest as though you were some martyr to the Imperial cause, thought Torgan, wrestling down his contempt for Dostos Delve. Evidently his feelings were echoed by the magos’ own, insofar as a servant of the Omnissiah could experience feelings at all, as he rebuffed Delve’s posturing without pause.

‘I make no apology for biological attrition in the application of optimal cleansing patterns,’ said the magos. ‘Were your labour units simply to–’

‘They are not labour units – they are men and women of the Imperium!’ barked Clan Lord Alamica Tectos, banging her augmetic fist down atop her podium.

‘Repetition. Were your labour units simply to proceed along their allotted work patterns, they would not overlap with the purging cycle at any point,’ said Gathabosis.

‘You’re asking our people to shuffle through danger like mindless servitors, to simply ignore the encroaching threats, to die without even fighting back,’ shouted Clan Lord Torphin Lo VanSappen, his nasal voice shrill with outrage.

‘I reiterate my observation to the conclave that upgrading all labour units to servitors would increase ore outputs by three hundred and fourteen per cent, while simultaneously eliminating all of the performance issues heretofore enumerated,’ said Gathabosis.

This elicited fresh howls of outrage.

Torgan bit down on his temper as Agnathio of Klaratos spat accusations at the impassive magos geologis, while Yenshi of Mastracha querulously called into question the loyalties of the isolationist Clan Tectos for the third time that sub-cycle.

‘Order in the conclave!’ shouted Seneschal Gryft hoarsely, banging his electro-gavel against his resonator plate until the sound thundered through the chamber. ‘There will be order in the conclave!’

‘Thank you, seneschal,’ said High Administrator Lunst into the resultant silence. ‘There was, in fact, a point I was attempting to convey.’

‘Point you were labouring to death, more like,’ Torgan heard the high marshal mutter under his breath, and again he had to quash a slight grim smirk.

‘In all of its history, Ghyre has never known such uncertainty and faced such potential for an as yet unspecified catastrophe,’ Lunst finished.

‘As yet unspecified? Is that what you want us to tell the wider Imperium, if we can even reach them through… whatever this is?’ snapped Marshal Kallistus.

‘If the rest of the Imperium is even still out there,’ said the first arbitrator sotto voce.

Torgan stiffened at this and growled, preparing to remonstrate with the first arbitrator for the dishonour her remark cast upon his Chapter and his kind, protocol be damned. Yet before he could speak, another did so in his stead.

‘My lady first arbitrator, do you doubt?’ asked Bishop Renwyck, his soft voice carrying across the chamber like a cold breeze. ‘Is there even the seed of doubt in your heart, in any of your hearts, that the wider Imperium has ceased to be? That we are, as some cry in the streets, the last loyal world? Messages begin to reach us once again, do they not? Is this not proof enough for you?’

Verol stiffened. ‘No, of course not, bishop. I do not doubt. Let the conclave note that my comment was ill-considered pessimism brought on by irritation at these continued arguments. It was unbecoming, and I request it be struck from the records.’

Seneschal Gryft nodded and harrumphed.

Scritch, came the combined swipe of dozens of quill-fingers striking in unison.

Torgan eased back, though he kept his glowering gaze fixed upon the first arbitrator. From her hunched posture and the way she looked anywhere but at him, he was quite sure she felt its heat.

‘The Emperor forgives you, of course,’ said Renwyck, his firm, calm voice betraying nothing of his comparative youth. He sounded supremely confident, Torgan thought, utterly sure in his faith. ‘We must, however, be wary of heresy at this testing time, however unintentional it might be, however innocent a wayward thought or bleak utterance might appear. Now is the hour in which we must show strength and conviction in the face of these trials, which have surely been sent by our glorious Emperor to test our mettle and prove our worth. Note, high administrator, that I say we must show strength, not the wider Imperium. If Emperor-sent trial this be, then it is not our place to appeal for aid from others who may even now be enduring their own tests of faith. Do you imply that Ghyre cannot stand alone, that our might or our faith is lacking?’

‘I imply nothing of the sort,’ snapped Lunst, visibly unfazed by Renwyck’s questioning. ‘The data all supports the supposition that there is a potentially violent upswell amongst the planetary labour population, and that deviant groups, mutant cults and terrorist cells are at work even now throughout the planet’s infrastructure. You have all heard, by now, of the instances of violence instigated amongst Klaratos Hive’s underslums and at several mining complexes by those claiming to fight for Imperial overthrow in the name of a being they call “Father”? You have heard of this being they call Shenn, also known as the three-armed gunman, seen the profane graffiti claiming that he offers the populace salvation? This cannot be allowed to continue. With all of the detrimental circumstances I have already listed, it surely becomes obvious that it is our duty as the ruling body of this planet to request military aid in rapidly rooting out and quelling any and all insurgency.’

Torgan’s eyes narrowed as the delegates continued to argue in ever more vociferous terms. He thought carefully about all that he was hearing, about the whispers that had reached him from his informants. He appreciated that to cry for help because of unsubstantiated reports, to needlessly draw off reinforcements from openly prosecuted Imperial war fronts, would be an unforgivable error of judgement. His pride, too, rankled at the thought of Ghyre calling for aid. The miners were restless, the mutants were forming militias, and dissidents had sabotaged a few outlying Imperial holdings. Surely he and his four battle-brothers alone should be the equal of such a disparate and dissolute threat?

Yet Torgan had fought the Emperor’s wars for over a century; his hard-won warrior’s instinct was needling at him that there was more he could not see. The sergeant was becoming increasingly convinced that there was some greater pattern at work here, some greater threat, and that to delay in the face of such danger would prove dereliction of the worst sort.

Then again, he thought, can we even call for help should we wish to? They say the darkness is fading, that the astronomican has been glimpsed again at last, but is that any guarantee that the surviving Ghyrish astropaths could force a message through the empyric distortion that still tortures the void? It has been long cycles since we were able to contact the Chapter, or they us.

He realised Dostos Delve was even now belabouring that very point.

‘…and what then, if we rupture the minds of our planet’s astropaths trying to force out a message they cannot send? If they claim the empyrean is clearing, then I say let it clear, give it time! And, as the revered bishop and honoured high marshal suggest, give us time to set our own planetary affairs in order without resorting to wasteful and potentially costly hysteria.’

‘Hysteria?’ cried the high administrator. Before the delegates could begin another round of bickering, there came the sharp ring of metal striking metal from above. Torgan looked up, as did the delegates of the conclave. He saw Governor Osmyndri Kallistus striking her pick and stave against one another slowly and deliberately. She looked down upon them, her old soldier’s features unreadable, the half-painted Emperor peering one-eyed over her shoulder.

‘Let the conclave acknowledge that we have heard and considered their words,’ she said. Her voice was stern and commanding, and even Torgan found his attention captured by the intensity of her gaze. ‘We thank you all for your contributions to this session and remind you that your capacity is purely advisory in nature. It shall be our final decision whether or not the current situation merits an attempt to send word to the wider Imperium for aid.’

A direct rebuke, Torgan thought, but not uncalled for. Still, for the governor to openly give voice to her authority was out of character. In the year that Torgan had known her, he had never found Governor Kallistus to be anything other than entirely composed and self-assured in the quality and security of her rule. She must be deeply concerned, he thought, to wield her power so openly.

All waited on her word, faces turned up to regard their governor. Torgan wondered what was going on behind the carefully neutral expressions of the delegates. Did any harbour agendas of their own? Undoubtedly, most likely all of them; Torgan’s experience with the Imperial ruling classes was unfortunately extensive and had never left him with much more than a general sense of abiding contempt that exceeded even that he felt for the sheep who formed their flocks. They all sought power and advancement. Few but the Adeptus Astartes had the clarity and selflessness to understand what was truly at stake and fight not for themselves but for the good of the Imperium. Yet these people did not see that, he thought grimly. The noble warriors of the Space Marine Chapters were little more than living weapons in their eyes – terrifying, certainly, even awe-inspiring, but no less biddable or limited than any other military force.

‘There is one voice of experience that has not yet spoken, and whose thoughts we would hear before we make our decision,’ said Governor Kallistus. ‘Brother-Sergeant Torgan, what say you of this?’

Torgan blinked in surprise, the cynical bent of his thoughts thrown off by the unexpected enquiry. He could almost feel Unctor’s quiet amusement and made a mental note to chastise his battle-brother later.

‘My lady governor, the duty of myself and my brothers is to serve as protectors,’ he said. ‘We are not politicians here to advise.’ His distaste for their role was clear in his inflection.

‘In the first instance, brother-sergeant, we would consider the provision of sound strategic advice in the matter of the planet’s defence to be a natural and implicit extension of your remit,’ said the governor. ‘In the second, please do not insult the dignitaries here gathered by implying that one of the Emperor’s own Angels of Death does not possess an informed and uniquely post-human opinion upon the wider strategic implications and potential causal links between the myriad troubles that now beset this world. We would hear that opinion, brother-sergeant, before making our decision.’

Torgan studied Governor Kallistus, his brow furrowed.

‘Of course, my lady governor,’ he said. ‘It is my belief an astropathic message should be sent directly to my Chapter, requesting aid.’

Cries of outrage burst from around him, but Torgan simply spoke louder, his booming voice easily overriding those that sought to challenge him.

‘The message should be sent without delay.’

Seneschal Gryft’s gavel banged against its resonator plate again, forcing the dignitaries into resentful silence. Torgan could feel them straining at their leashes, ready to attack him or each other again the moment they got the chance. He felt the angry glares of the high marshal, of the first arbitrator and assembled clan lords. They impacted him no more than a laspistol might wound a Baneblade.

For some reason, it was not so easy to ignore the steady, appraising gaze of Bishop Renwyck, whose expression was unreadable.

‘It would please us if you could explain the reasoning behind your suggestion,’ pressed Governor Kallistus. ‘It is no small thing, to appeal directly to a Space Marine Chapter for aid. What if this turns out to be a situation that we can handle on our own? Would there not then be censure most severe for wasting the precious time of the Adeptus Astartes?’

‘Do not question my understanding of the demands placed upon my Chapter, lady governor. Nor the authority I possess as regards communicating with them as I see fit,’ barked Torgan. ‘The threat is greater than currently visible – of that I am certain. There are insurgents reported in all three of Ghyre’s hives. That suggests numbers. They have struck at Imperial holdings despite the efforts of the arbitrators and Ghyrish regiments to prevent them. That implies organisation and access to military-grade weaponry. Most disturbing, they all claim fealty to the same entity, “Father”. That implies widespread organisation and a heretical faith. Couple that with the warp storm activity the assembled dignitaries are all too frightened to name, and I see the first stirrings of planet-wide insurrection. If we delay, it won’t be disruptions to quotas, it will be war, perhaps disaster.’

‘And if you are wrong, sir?’ demanded Marshal Kallistus.

Torgan locked eyes with the marshal, fury roaring within him. The man quickly averted his gaze.

‘Then the censure will be mine alone, human.’

Governor Kallistus struck her stave against her pick once, twice, thrice as ritual demanded, the symbolic echo of picks striking rockfaces all across Ghyre’s single, vast continent.

‘The people of Ghyre are loyal, faithful and true. We believe that they find satisfaction and value in their honest toil, and that they are as dedicated servants as the Emperor has ever known. Therefore, if corruption has spread through even such a loyal and worthy people as these, we believe that it must be a perilous and powerful heresy indeed. The esteemed high administrator and brother-sergeant are correct in their assessments. By the pronouncement of Governor Osmyndri Ellisentris Kallistus XXI, in the sight of the ruling conclave of Ghyre and by the authority of the Immortal God-Emperor of Mankind, we do this day approve the composition and despatch of an astropathic call for aid directly to the Imperial Fists Space Marine Chapter. Let there be contained within it the particulars of the threats that we face, and full and frank expression of the urgency that Brother-Sergeant Torgan of that same Chapter believes that it merits.’

Quill-fingers scritched on parchment. A flight of servo-skulls detached themselves from the workings of the governor’s throne and whirred away on grav-impellers to transmit her commands directly to the necessary organs of governance.

She continued, ‘In the interim, let the spirelords return to their hives and look to the neutralisation of these insurgent elements within our society. Let the high marshal and first arbitrator put their full forces at the disposal of the lords of clan and hive that we might do everything in our power to combat the spreading rot and withstand the darkness both within and without. Let the holy men of the Imperial faith pray for our salvation in this hour, and let the servants of the Omnissiah look to the maintenance of our quotas by whatever means they must. So have we spoken, and so shall it be done.’

Muttering spread through the conclave chamber, building rapidly through a rumble and into a roar of agitated conversation. Aides and scribes scurried off into the shadows, departing the chamber through heavy plasteel security bulkheads to carry their masters’ instructions hither and thither. Torgan watched them go, a frown creasing his brow.

‘What of us, brother-sergeant?’ asked Unctor, sub-vocalising so that only Torgan would hear him. ‘Do we stand watch over the governor? If you are correct about how far the rot has spread on this world–’

‘I am, and no, we do not,’ replied Torgan. ‘The governor has a great many bodyguards in her employ, but a bare handful of mortal warriors stand watch over the astropathic sanctum. If the enemy are organised enough to strike, they will strike there.’

He set off across the upper chamber, making for the ramps with Unctor at his shoulder. As he went, he felt the level gaze of Bishop Renwyck following him all the way out.

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Of Honour and Iron first published in 2018.
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Fist of the Imperium first published in 2020.
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* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.