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Ghost Legion – Extract

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

-194.02.35

Sertra, viewed from a craft descending from orbit, was not a beautiful world. However, neither was it a hellscape. Its continents were certainly marked by the ugly grey sprawls of metropolises and manufactoria, interspersed with the occasional ragged, fang-like eruption of a hive city reaching up to where the atmosphere began to thin. But there were great ordered swathes of greens, blue-greens, and purples, too, where the crops on which the planet sustained itself were grown. The oceans were dotted with the glinting specks of massive drilling rigs, yet they too showed the colours of life in their great algal blooms and pale rings of corals. Meanwhile, although the clouds were trawled by enormous hovering platforms harvesting exotic, wind-blown spores from which both powerful medicines and virulent toxins could be distilled, the air itself was not hazed with industrial waste products or choked by acidic gases.

‘What are you thinking?’ Tulava Dyne asked. Solomon Akurra, Harrowmaster of the Ghost Legion, raised his eyebrows at her.

‘Can you not just read my thoughts?’ he asked mildly. Tulava glowered at him like a scholam mistress, had a scholam mistress habitually shaved one side of her head and dyed the hair on the other into long strands of pale greens and blues, and, indeed, worn a battered Astra Militarum-issue carapace breastplate and combat boots. Tulava might be a psyker, and a sorcerer to boot, but she knew better than to place all her trust in her arcane abilities for her own protection.

‘You know I can’t do that,’ she said sharply. Tulava was well into her middle years now, although that was a very loose statement in a galaxy where the human lifespan could be extended into centuries with the correct drugs and surgical procedures. Still, she was no longer a youth by any accounting, and her face wore marks of age, combat, and other, more nebulous hardships. She was certainly at least a hundred years younger than Solomon, but that didn’t stop her from speaking to him as though she was his superior and he was an annoying junior.

Sometimes, at any rate. Despite her irreverent manner, which Solomon would not have had any other way, Tulava knew when to acknowledge his authority. Mostly.

‘I was thinking that it is nice to come to a world that is not currently on fire, and without the intention of setting the blaze myself,’ Solomon said, looking out of the viewport once more. They were aboard Shadowstrike, a modified Storm Eagle gunship, which Solomon had taken as his personal shuttle since he had assumed command of the group of Alpha Legion warbands now known as the Ghost Legion.

‘They say that the road to damnation is paved with good intentions,’ Tulava remarked. ‘Remind me why we’ve come back?’

Solomon sighed. ‘Because although this system denounced the Imperium and accepted us with only minor urging, there have been recurring insurgencies, as well you know. I am here to impress upon the mortal governors the importance of keeping their population under control. I am not here to burn anything down.’

‘No, you’re here because Kyrin asked you to come,’ Tulava said with a snort. ‘If any of your other commanders had requested you for such a minor piece of diplomacy, you’d have told them where to stick it. Slightly more diplomatically, I’ll admit,’ she added.

Solomon stared at her levelly. ‘There is a phenomenon known as “transhuman dread”, where mortals are overcome by fear in the presence of a warrior of the Astartes. I sometimes regret that the effect wears off with time.’

‘Oh, I’m afflicted,’ Tulava replied, grinning. ‘It just manifests as insubordination.’

Shadowstrike touched down on Star Field, the main landing pad of Savionus, the planet’s capital – not a towering hive, but a more traditional affair of open-air streets and city blocks. Had Solomon been an Imperial dignitary of any standing, then there would have been the greatest pomp and circumstance: heralds playing fanfares on whichever local instrument was deemed the most impressive; incense-swinging priests from the Ecclesiarchy preceding him while chanting prayers to the God-Emperor; probably a regiment of the planetary guard sweating in their uniforms beneath the sun, backs ramrod-straight and creases neatly pressed. Such self-glorification was the very fabric of the Imperium, and Solomon detested it. The contrasts between the Imperium and his New Alliance were to be emphasised at every opportunity.

There was a small delegation waiting for him at the bottom of Shadowstrike’s ramp, all of them Alpha Legion. Solomon had been expecting to see the face of his old friend Kyrin Gadraen, the only other survivor from their joint home world. He had not anticipated some of the others that were present.

‘Well, well, the gang’s all here,’ Tulava said brightly, from beside him. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’

Solomon quickly took stock. The towering shape of Roek Ghulclaw of the Guns of Freedom in his spike-adorned Terminator armour was no surprise, since he and his militia-heavy forces had come to the Sertraeus System to resupply from the munitions produced by Sertra and its sister planets. Jarvul Glaine of the Shrouded Hand was less expected, but unmistakeable; the skin on his face was practically translucent, showing the red muscle, white fat, and flowing blood beneath. Vyrun Evale of the Penitent Sons had a face and scalp covered by tiny scars: wounds from the barbs inside his helmet, which all the Space Marines of his warband placed there as an act of bizarre self-flagellation. Keros Asid was the lord of the Sons of Venom, who considered biological weapons to be the pinnacle of warfare, and whose armour was noticeably scored and pitted by the corrosive compounds with which they worked. Finally, both more and less strange than the others, was one of the Faceless – a warband who placed great emphasis on all looking the same. This one would be called Alpharius, mainly because, so far as anyone outside their cell was concerned, they were all called Alpharius.

Solomon came to a halt and grounded the butt of the Pale Spear on the rockcrete under his feet with a faint clang. He carried the weapon of the original Alpharius, the Lord of Serpents – or at least, that was what everyone believed. Solomon did not know if it was the true weapon, since no one within the Legion had seen it for ten thousand years. The inquisitor from whom he stole the blades – the true haft had eluded him – thought it was the real thing, and it was certainly lethal in combat. It was not the only basis of his authority, but it was a considerable part of it, and so long as it continued to serve him as he needed it to, then Solomon couldn’t care less whether it was genuine or not.

‘My lords,’ he said in greeting, taking a split-second decision to treat their presence as something unremarkable. ‘It was good of you to come.’ Any show of surprise, let alone demands for an explanation, risked painting him as weak. The Alpha Legion saw all, knew all, manipulated all. That was the image they portrayed to those in the galaxy who knew of them, and whilst the Legion itself knew this to be a fiction, it was still the game they played and the leadership they expected. Solomon had welded disparate, isolated bands of warriors together into a force greater than the sum of its parts, but with that came the unknown, and uncertainty. The political side of command had been hard enough when he had merely been dealing with his own warband, the Serpent’s Teeth.

‘Lord Akurra,’ Kyrin said, dipping his scarred head in acknowledgement, which Solomon returned solemnly. He and Kyrin had been on first-name terms all their lives; for Kyrin to be addressing him with a formal title now had to mean something. Was he seeking to reinforce Solomon’s status with these other commanders? Was unrest brewing?

‘Welcome back to Sertra,’ Kyrin continued. ‘The capital of your new empire welcomes you, and transportation has been provided to the governor’s palace.’

‘Nothing too ornate, I hope,’ Solomon said. His tone was light, but the sentiment genuine. He had seen how the Imperium’s citizens chafed beneath the ostentatious wealth displayed by their so-called betters; his Legion had taken advantage of that unrest many times. He would not make the same mistakes.

‘There are… a limited amount of vehicles capable of transporting Space Marines,’ Kyrin said, his face giving nothing away. ‘And since our policy is not to use military vehicles when not in active warzones–’

‘I understand,’ Solomon said. That was one of the New Alliance’s tenets: they were not to be seen as an occupying force. Strength was only to be shown when it was required. It was a sharp contrast for a citizenry used to the boot of the Imperium on their neck, let alone one that had feared what the arrival of renegades such as the Ghost Legion might mean, and Solomon intended to exploit it. Agents were in place in the community, listening for whispers and ready to turn the might of a mob on anyone who transgressed too overtly. After all, armoured enforcers prowling the streets were an easy target for dissension and resistance, but how could a population resist its own will? It was far more efficient, and less disruptive to everyone, including the manufactoria, to let them police themselves. With appropriate guidance, of course.

‘Very well,’ he said to Kyrin. ‘What do we have?’

Two minutes later, they were standing in front of their transport.

‘You know, if I were to look up “ornate” in the lexicanum, I think this would be the illustration,’ Tulava remarked, leaning on her force staff and staring up at it.

‘There are no other options?’ Solomon asked, although he was fairly certain what the answer would be.

‘None that meet your requirements,’ Kyrin replied. ‘The governor offered the use of her personal groundcar, but it would have neither sufficient room nor the ability to take our combined weight in our armour. Your Mastodon would suffice from a purely practical standpoint, but there is little more overtly military than a large armoured transport. The governor insisted that you travel in something more appropriate than a converted cargo hauler, and so…’ He waved a hand.

It was… a chariot, Solomon supposed would be the nearest term. It was immense, constructed of thick, old, and lavishly decorated wood, and rested on four solid wheels. Above the passenger area, supported by a richly carved post at each corner, stood a tapering roof of tiny tiles that formed flowing patterns in white and blue. Most extravagant of all, the motive power did not come from a promethium engine, or even something more exotic, but a massive, sturdy beast yoked to the front. It stood twice Solomon’s height, with six legs as thick as his waist, four slightly curved horns protruding from its brow, and a drooping, quivering mass of tentacle-like appendages obscuring its mouth.

‘Great duskhorn,’ Kyrin said, gesturing to the animal. ‘Native to the central plains of this continent, and considered sacred by at least one of the formerly banned local faiths that has re-emerged since our arrival. Only prominent servants of the people are permitted the honour of riding in a vehicle drawn by one, and the ruling council has decreed that you meet that criteria.’

Solomon nodded. Some might bridle as being seen as a ‘servant’, but it suited his purposes. The important thing was that the planet remained peaceful and prosperous, and therefore productive. So long as that was the case, he needed no extravagant titles.

He extended his hand, inviting his sub-commanders to board before him. ‘Then let us be on our way.’

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2026.
This eBook edition published in 2026 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Represented by: Games Workshop Limited – Irish branch, Unit 3, Lower Liffey Street, Dublin 1, D01 K199, Ireland.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Jodie Muir.

Ghost Legion © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2026. Ghost Legion, 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: 978-1-80407-991-1

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.

For the Urban Cannibal.

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