Contents

Cover

Garro: Knight of Grey – Extract

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

ONE

Dining on Ashes
The Last of the Few
You Know Her

With one heavy footfall after another, the warrior giant advanced up the narrow spiral stairwell.

His ceramite boots were too wide for stairs that had been built for the tread of common men, the shoulders of his power armour far too broad for the tight, human-scale confines of the towering minaret. The edges of his wargear’s pauldrons would catch on the walls from time to time, gouging lines out of the fire-blackened granite to mark his passing.

He was forced to negotiate places where the sides of the passageway had been blown in by shell impacts, picking his way over heaps of sooty debris, and often, the grisly remains of slain defenders.

The damage and the carnage grew ever worse the closer he got to the top. The tower had been home to a lascannon nest that rained beams of crimson hell down on the enemy throughout the night’s fighting, drawing concentrated fire in return. At length, he emerged into the smoggy cold of the day as the spiral stairs deposited him on the highest level that still remained intact. The beheaded ruin of the minaret hummed with a hard breeze that carried particles of gritty, dirty sleet with it.

The dead – men and women in the grey carapace armour of the resident garrison – lay where they had fallen, half-buried in drifts of ash and broken brickwork. Some still clutched their guns to them, the muzzles of the rifles glistening with the oily rainbow sheen of heat-damaged metal. He saw burst flesh seared from within marking many of the soldiers, and toxin-bloated faces on others that stared sightlessly at the sky. Death had touched them with terror and agony in their final moments.

Compelled by a sudden impulse, the warrior checked his air sensors, then removed his grey-hued battle helmet and mag-locked it to his hip. He looked up past the missing roof of the tower, to snatch a glimpse of what the fallen had seen.

Above, the forbidding sky had a strange, sickly hue, lined with striations of black cloud reaching from north to south, and on the wind were sounds that might have been voices, if one listened for them. Hundreds of metres up, above the perimeter of the great aegis field, metal birds caught the weak sunlight as they wheeled and turned around one another, trading streaks of sun-hot plasma from their guns. The keening whine of their engines and the faint chug of their weapons reached him over another, steady sound coming from far away – a low drumming like the beating of a gigantic heart.

Past the atmo-fighters locked in their endless dogfight, the strange storms of brassy lightning, and up into the higher ranges of the reddish Himalazian sky, shapes loomed in the heavens. Great baroque forms floating in near-orbit, some on fire, others crackling with arcane energies. Starships as big as city-states drifted there, their numbers and their masses so great that their proximity tormented the planet’s gravitational and magnetic fields, warping weather patterns from pole to pole.

The skies of Terra were no longer the domain of the Imperium of Man, the warrior reflected. The skies belonged to Horus Lupercal, may his name be blighted, to the treacherous Warmaster and the Traitor Legions at his banner. Only the stone and the mud were held by those who remained loyal to the Emperor, and even those elements were in danger of slipping away.

After a breath, the warrior took another step, moving onto an unsteady outcropping of broken masonry and laser-scarred ouslite. He let his gaze drop to the riven battleground beneath the minaret, and the fields of destruction rolling away to the broken horizon.

The spindly tower was the only one to have survived the recent onslaught, emerging from the cracked and shattered domains of the gigantic Colossi Bastion, reaching to the burnt sky like a skeletal, accusing finger atop a beheaded mountain. A vast, seemingly endless landscape of rubble stretched towards the gutted shell of the bastion’s sibling fortress, Corbenic Gard, and in the direction of the City of Sight. Ahead of the warrior, the Anterior Gate and the outer dominions of the great Imperial Palace still stood intact, but in the eerie red corpse-light, the huge, maze-like conurbations resembled forms scrimshawed out of old bone.

His face turned towards the heartbeat sound, towards the Lion’s Gate and what lay past it. Eyes narrowing, he raised a battered monocular scope to look across the great distance, searching the canyons of debris and the towering wall of thick, abyssal smoke obscuring much of the battle zone’s reaches.

He picked out forms in bright crimson moving in packs through the destruction: some on foot, others riding slab-shaped tanks or speeders blurred by anti-gravity fields as they navigated the shattered avenues choked by the spill of ruined buildings. All were drawing back, likely towards more adequately reinforced strongpoints, abandoning the kill boxes and poisoned quadrants that remained from their last engagement.

These were the rearguard elements of Brother-Captain Raldoron’s forces, sons of the IX Legion, the noble Blood Angels of Sanguinius. In the past desperate hours, Raldoron’s army, and that of the White Scars Legion under the command of the Khan himself, had made war on Horus’ invaders. It had been a brutal and harrowing skirmish in a conflict that daily set new standards in horror and destruction – and ultimately, it had counted for little. The line the Blood Angels and the White Scars had fought so hard to maintain could not hold indefinitely.

The word had finally been given. The eastern bastions could no longer be adequately secured by the loyalist forces, and they were declared indefensible, surrendered in the face of the enemy advance.

The enemy.

How those words burned in the warrior’s heart.

Once, in what seemed like another life, a whole other existence, he had marched alongside those whom the Blood Angels and White Scars had fought to a standstill. In the time before the great betrayal at Isstvan, in countless righteous battles and noble crusades, the warrior had been proud to be a part of the XIV Legion, the Death Guard. Now he had only shame, sorrow and rage for those who had once been his oathsworn brethren. Their broken vows to Terra and the Emperor were wounds upon his heart that would never heal, and that he could never forgive.

He looked past the withdrawing Blood Angels elements – the sole loyalist forces remaining on the field, the White Scars having already decamped and moved off in search of better odds – and away to the wall of curdled smoke marking the edge of the traitors’ advance.

It wasn’t just smoke. One who studied it carefully would see that the hazy mass moved against the direction of the wind, with apparent conscious intent. Even from kilometres away, he saw the glitter of reflected light off the millions of tiny wings that made up the plague swarms.

And among the haze strode huge forms as tall as hab-blocks, unhurried and inexorable, moving as one in deliberate lockstep. Each massive footfall sounded across the distance to the warrior’s ears, the steady drumbeat rhythm of corrupted steel and corroded iron against the earth.

The giant bipedal war machines of the Legio Mortis were on the march, each passing moment bringing them ever nearer to the walls of the Inner Palace. Within hours, they would be within optimal range and a new rain of fire would begin. Oath-breakers of the Mechanicum, bound to Horus’ perfidy, the Warlords, Reavers and Iconoclasts of the Death’s Heads would leave only radioactive dust in their wake. Somewhere at the feet of those killer god-machines marched phalanx upon phalanx of tainted Death Guard legionaries, and the warped things they had allied with.

His brothers were coming for him, he could feel it in his blood and bone. They were coming for them all.

In every corner of the Palace’s gigantic span, a thousand small battles were being fought, with countless battalions of soldiers, aviators, gunners, war devices and legionaries deep in their own brutal engagements. Whole districts had been laid waste, filled with the bodies of unburied dead left to decay and fester by comrades who had no time to tend to the innumerable fallen. The pall of the worst war this planet had ever known hung over everything, the dense reek of aerosolised vitae, spent promethium and cordite changing the atmosphere into a constant funereal haze. It was no exaggeration to voice the thought – these desperate times had the colour of the end of days, of an apocalypse that would, in its fullness, soon erase the rule of mankind from the planet of its origin.

No living soul on Terra could ignore the whispers in every shadow, and the terrors – some conjured by tricks of the mind, others real in fang and talon – lurking in the darkness. There could be no rest, no respite, no quarter asked for or given. Hell had disgorged itself upon the planet, rising from the depths of nightmares and falling from the blackness between the stars. Whole worlds were ending here in every passing second, some of them the lives of ordinary men, others the futures of those who would be left behind.

And yet… in this place, in this moment, there was only desolation. In this lacuna amid the bloodshed, the sullen peace of the grave held sway.

A new sound caught the warrior’s attention, a trickle of stone fragments and the juddering buzz of damaged motors as something moved beneath one of the rubble piles. Warily, he crossed the open space to the source of the noise, and with one gauntleted hand, he shoved away a fallen piece of ceiling. The action revealed the remains of two bodies, Army troopers most likely assigned to the lascannon crew. They had fallen together, united in death, but what killed them was still here.

A foetid, bloated shape trembled in the daylight, nestled between the bodies of the dead men. No larger than a fuel barrel, it lay atop the corpses. On one surface, a cluster of insect eyes regarded the warrior blankly, and two filth-caked propeller modules protruded from its flanks, blades turning in weak, jerky motions. A cluster of chitinous mandibles scraped and wavered in the air.

A blight drone: halfway between a machine and an engineered life form, fleshy wattles and mollusc-shell animated by foul processes the warrior loathed to imagine. Trapped under the fallen roof, the drone was trying to repair its own damage by opening the dead men to use their bones, sinews and skin as replacement parts.

His jaw set in a hard line, the warrior’s disgust expressed itself in swift violence. He stamped the drone into a pulpy mess, and as it died with a squeal, it let off a puff of reeking vapour. He recoiled, grimacing as faint traces of the poison touched his bare face. The warrior’s transhuman physiology endured the toxin with ease, but where the vapour’s heavy droplets fell on the dead men, their bodies turned to black slurry.

The warrior drew himself up, and spat to clear his lungs. His dark, wary eyes sat in a face criss-crossed with trophy scars from past wars, beneath a heavy brow that carried the brass service studs of a ranked battle-captain. His skull was shorn and he wore no beard, his pale face reminiscent of some ancient Hellenikai statuary from the age before Old Night. His aspect was rigid and searching, a man one might think was bound by great duty, yet lost to his cause. A warrior destined to live and to die alone.

But not today, it seemed. Someone was coming up the narrow stairwell, following in his footsteps, someone equally unsuited to the human-scale confines of the passageway.

His hand dropped to the great power sword sheathed at his belt, fingers tightening around the hilt. He sensed no immediate danger at hand, but it would take only a heartbeat to draw the blade. He had learned through bitter experience that to lower his guard was to invite ill-fortune.

Presently, a figure emerged from the broken mouth of the stairwell, another giant man-shape in powered armour rising into the daylight. Both wore the same stripe of wargear: Mark VI Corvus-pattern plate, heavy in form like that of the Blood Angels below on the battlefield, but drained of colour. The ceramite of their greaves and gauntlets was a shade of grey like slate, like an ocean storm.

‘Well met, kinsman,’ said the new arrival, his words bereft of warmth.

Nathaniel Garro, former battle-captain of the Death Guard, former Agentia Primus of Malcador the Sigillite, inclined his head in a nod. ‘Helig Gallor,’ he said, recognising the other warrior by the pattern of his movements more than his voice. ‘You are not yet dead.’

‘Despite all attempts of the fates,’ came the dour reply. Gallor removed his helm to mirror Garro’s aspect, revealing a familiar, ever-grave expression.

Gallor too had once been a son of Mortarion, one of the Death Guard Legion, and his path mirrored Garro’s in the warrior’s rejection of perfidy against Terra. Both were remnants from the ideal of a Legion that no longer existed, the last of a handful of loyalists whose gene-sire primarch had turned his back on the Emperor and embraced treachery. Both had, for a time, found new direction as Knights Errant under the command of the great psyker Malcador, as agents of the Emperor’s right hand.

But despite their shared circumstances and common origins, there was little comradeship between the two warriors. Garro considered Gallor to be imprudent, even undisciplined. For his part, Gallor thought of Garro as stiff, haughty and arrogant.

Gallor nodded towards Garro’s shoulder pauldron. ‘You no longer carry the mark of the Sigillite upon your armour.’

‘It has not proven to be an issue.’ Garro gave a curt nod. ‘Malcador generously released me from my service to the Throne… As if a mere etching on ceramite was all that tethered me to that duty.’

‘Only in death does duty end.’ Gallor repeated the old, rote maxim without conscious recollection, the words coming from the deep reservoir of hypnogogic training that had been imprinted on both legionaries as initiates.

‘Aye. So what duty has compelled you to seek me out in these bleak days, brother? I have not laid eyes on you since the mission at the Saturnine Wall.’

‘Bleak?’ Gallor echoed the word, deflecting the question. ‘They are, at that. But tell me, do you not carry a flame of hope in your breast, safe beneath your armour?’ He pointed to the ornate golden eagle across the cuirass that shrouded Garro’s torso. ‘I wonder. Do you not hold an ephemeral light in your spirit? Isn’t that your way now?’

Garro’s lips thinned at the veiled challenge, uncertain where it was leading. ‘I believe what I believe. That the Emperor protects.’

‘He cannot protect everyone,’ said Gallor. ‘He is mighty, but He is no god.’ Then the other warrior cocked his head. ‘Or is He?’

Garro said nothing, refusing to be baited. Long before the Siege of Terra had begun, even before the Warmaster’s betrayal, there were those who considered the Emperor of Mankind as more deity than mortal. They had many names – the followers of the Lectitio Divinitatus: Truekind, Imperiads, Lightbringers – and many expressions of their devotion, such as it was. Garro did not consider himself among any one of these groups, but he did believe. He did have faith.

It was only when called upon to fully quantify that conviction that words failed him. ‘I have faced death many times, against impossible odds, and still I live,’ he murmured. ‘There must be a reason, by the Throne. Once, I was told that I was of purpose. I choose to hold to that still.’ He looked away. ‘Call it what you will, brother. I care not if you think I am deluded.’

To his surprise, Gallor gave a rare – if bitter – laugh. ‘I would not dare to! And in days as dark as these, who am I to challenge what gives a warrior succour? No, I only sought to know if your attitude has shifted on such matters. I see it has not.’

‘Oh, it has,’ Garro corrected, a grim solemnity sweeping over his expression. ‘My faith has been tested, again and again, but never as gravely as now.’ He gestured towards the ruins heaped at the horizon. ‘Terra burns about us, in such profusion that a single sword, a single boltgun cannot hope to turn back the fire. I have lent my aid to the Palace’s defenders wherever I can, wandering between the battlements and donjons, and yet the taint of futility is forever at my back.’

Gallor nodded. ‘I feel it too.’

When Horus’ fleet had come, when his ships had darkened the sky, some stirring of martial exhilaration had been reborn in Garro’s twin hearts. He stood with his ersatz kinsman Garviel Loken and made ready for a battle of such glory that it would be sung of for ten thousand years; but the reality of the grinding, monstrous siege-war had burned through that. The great imperious scope of the Palace city-state, once the venerated jewel of Terra, had become a hellish crater filled with shed blood and the detritus of brutal war.

An inescapable foreboding filled his soul. As if sensing the great cogs of some unseen mechanism turning about him, Garro felt the fates were aligning in ways he could only guess at. And now, with his lost Legion on the approaches, and with his former primarch marching somewhere among their number, the true power of something he rarely knew gripped him.

Fear.

‘He is out there,’ said Garro, voicing the thought.

‘Mortarion.’ Gallor knew of whom he spoke, grimacing around the name. ‘Our traitor lord, come to plague us anew.’

‘Aye.’ Words pushed to be spoken, but Garro held them back, suddenly uncertain.

What could he say to Gallor that would not cast a greater pall over their conversation? That he dreaded what would come to pass at the moment Mortarion stood before them. That he could not escape the sense that he was living on borrowed time, and worse, that Nathaniel Garro’s end would come before he had the chance to fulfil his purpose in this life.

And most treacherous and terrible, the words he dared not utter, that he could barely even countenance – the awful possibility that Horus Lupercal might actually take Terra for himself, despite everything they had done to defy his heresy.

A chill cut through Garro’s blood and his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. I will die a thousand times before I let that come to pass.

He released a held breath and studied Gallor anew. ‘You did not answer my first question. You have not said why you are here. You have reason to distract me from my musings. Did someone send you?’

‘In a way,’ allowed Gallor. ‘There is something you need to see.’

Garro’s kinsman would not be drawn further, citing both his own reticence and the possibility of long-ranging traitor observers watching their position. Instead, Gallor silently led him back down to ground level and across the broken landscape at a loping, swift pace.

They moved through shallow canyons of debris and over burnt-out combat vehicles, skirting deep craters where seething bowls of heat still sizzled from macro-shell impacts. Presently, the battlefield levelled out into the remains of some great plaza. Once beautiful mosaics and elegant stone friezes had been fused into masses of black glass, and the nubs of tall statues were all that remained of a sculpture orchard in the centre.

They came to a small forward observation post, little more than a clump of plastek bivouacs, in the process of being torn down by a crew of Blood Angels Legion serfs. Four warriors of the IX Legion watched them arrive from afar, giving the two Legionless cursory nods of greeting but nothing else.

Garro noted the elegant uniformity of the faces of the Blood Angels. Despite their war-scars, they remained handsome in aspect, echoing their winged, angelic progenitor. But their nobility seemed muted, as if the war had knocked it out of them. He knew from shared battles in the past that beneath the Blood Angels’ dignity there lay a murderer’s fury when provoked, and Garro imagined that shackled rage lying closer to the surface now, ready to be released.

‘In here.’ Gallor halted by a camouflaged yurt, pulling back the door flap so that Garro could enter. Ducking his head, the warrior passed inside, into shadow.

Gallor followed him, moving to a pile of storage crates, delving into one to retrieve something. ‘I asked our cousins to guard this for me while I sought you out,’ he explained. ‘I wanted to gauge your disposition before I showed it to you.’

Garro folded his arms. ‘I am in no mood for games and obfuscation, know that,’ he said. ‘What do you have there?’

‘See.’ The other warrior showed him the glittering shape of a hololithic diamond. Reams of data or imagery could be stored inside its complex crystalline structure, preserved and virtually indestructible. He inserted the gemstone into the reader matrix of a tactical projector in the corner of the space.

With a soft hum, the projector came to life, breathing out a smoky sphere of holographic light. The diamond’s lattice translated its contents into three-dimensional pictures that wavered and danced between the two warriors.

Garro saw aerial views of other bastions along the fighting line – he recognised Corbenic when it was still intact, the massive fortresses of Gorgon Bar and Marmax. Gallor’s gauntleted fingers moved with delicacy, manipulating the projector’s controls to dash forward through the data stored on the diamond.

‘Like you,’ he went on, ‘I too have wandered the edges of this siege, from the Europa Wall all the way to the Helios Gate, providing what assistance I can to those who need another gun or another strong arm. There has been no shortage of those at disadvantage.’

Garro nodded. ‘When there are no orders given, we make our own.’

‘Indeed.’ Gallor hesitated, and Garro sensed he was framing his next words with care. ‘In my travels, intelligence has come to me, some of it useless, some of it accurate. A few days ago, I encountered a flyer crew whose craft had been shot out from under them, the survivors retreating on foot towards loyalist lines. They gave me this…’ He tapped the diamond. ‘And they told me a story.’

Gallor went on, insisting that he had spoken to no one else of what the aircrew had said. He had brought it straight to Garro, keeping it secret from the Blood Angels he marched with, from everyone. At first, Garro did not understand why his kinsman was acting with caution, but as the other Knight Errant unfolded the tale, the reason became clear.

South of the Colossi Bastion stood its sister-citadel, Marmax – another gargantuan holdfast built to the Emperor’s own design and fortified beyond that by His steadfast son, Rogal Dorn of the Imperial Fists. Like the now abandoned Colossi, the domains of Marmax were also in heavy contact with traitor forces – something that would only worsen with the renewed advance of the Death Guard and the Legio Mortis.

Soldiers perished in droves each day upon the battlefield, but Gallor’s story spoke of a peculiar anomaly among the tally of the fallen. In a sector of the Marmax Bastion’s north-western face, where the fighting was among the most violent, the defenders of a zone called the Dilectio Tier were holding their ground while all around them were crumbling.

‘They defy the odds,’ said Gallor, with a scowl. ‘Day after day, so I was told.’ As he spoke, he dialled in the projector’s images, finding the location among the clutter, zooming in to enlarge the tier until it filled the interior of the yurt. ‘They should be dead and ashes twenty times over, Garro. And yet, they hold. These common soldiers, these ordinary humans have beaten back attacks that should have annihilated them.’

‘You suspect something… corruptive… at work there?’ Garro hesitated to find the right phrasing. He had almost said the word daemonic, before he stopped himself.

‘At first,’ Gallor noted. ‘But the reality appears to be quite the reverse. I sought to learn more, and in doing so I discovered that someone is moving among these soldiers. A voice, Garro. Not quite a leader, but a…’ He frowned. ‘A confidante, you could say. This person is rallying these soldiers to fight far beyond what their normal abilities should allow.’

‘A psyker, then.’

‘Unclear.’ Gallor shrugged. ‘You are better qualified than I am to answer that.’

Garro’s expression mirrored his kinsman’s. He was growing impatient. ‘Speak plainly! What do you mean?’

‘You know her,’ said the other warrior, as he dialled in on a group of figures captured in the image of the embattled fortress, enhancing and sharpening it until distinct faces were visible.

Garro saw a frozen frame of dozens of Imperial Army troopers, caught with their arms and lasrifles raised to the air in a shout of victory. They looked battle-worn and weary, but their eyes were alight with that same defiant martial zeal Garro had felt on the day Horus came.

In the middle of the group was a woman in a threadbare civilian oversuit, and all the troopers around her had a hand upon her shoulders or her back. Not in the manner of supplicants touching some holy object, but like friends, united in a simple moment of human connection.

He knew her.

‘Keeler.’ The name fell from Garro’s lips in a hushed breath.

‘The Saint,’ said Gallor.

Garro shook his head. ‘She never chose that name. Others laid it upon her, forced her to carry its weight. The truth is far more complex.’

He had thought her safe and protected, deep in one of the Emperor’s most secure refuges, but to see the woman like this, her laughing face bare to the sky and open to attack at any instant… The raw shock of it made Garro’s hands draw into fists.

Euphrati Keeler: once a remembrancer sent into the Imperial fleets to document the work of the Great Crusade through her picter and her artist’s eye, she had passed beyond that life when events conspired to draw the woman into the Warmaster’s machinations.

It changed her in ways that no one could ever have expected, and soon the threads of her fate became entwined with those of Nathaniel Garro. As Gallor had said, some knew her as the so-called Saint, the voice of the nascent Imperial Truth, of the divinity of the God-Emperor of Mankind. Some said she was touched by the Emperor’s power, even that she might be a conduit to His greatness.

Garro knew her as something else. A guide. A light in the darkness that showed the way ahead. The woman who had counselled the warrior time and again since the tragedy at Isstvan.

Without her, he mused, I would have been lost.

But she was supposed to be in hiding, protected from danger until the fires of the Siege of Terra were put out.

‘What is she doing there?’ Garro bit out the words.

‘I would say, she is doing the same as you and I,’ said Gallor. ‘Lending aid where she can.’

‘She is in harm’s way,’ he retorted. ‘This…’ Garro gestured at the hololith. ‘This is too great a risk. I must take her from Marmax, get her away before this reckless behaviour claims her life!’ He stared into the image, trying to see into Keeler’s thoughts.

What could compel her to put herself in so great a danger, to hide in plain sight in the middle of a warzone?

‘I brought this to you because I know of your beliefs.’ Gallor eyed him. ‘Which I do not share. But that said, I do have faith of a kind – in you. Our differences aside, battle-captain, I understand that the Keeler woman has importance to whatever Imperium will come after Horus Lupercal lies dead. I will accompany you.’

‘Gratitude,’ offered Garro. ‘But you need not.’

‘I know,’ Gallor replied, ‘and yet I will. You may consider it misplaced nostalgia on my part, if you wish, for the days when we were Death Guard. When that meant something.’

‘Very well.’

Gallor removed the hololithic diamond and the projector image vanished. He weighed it in his hand, then added something more. ‘I will say this,’ he went on. ‘Prepare yourself for disappointment. She does not seem like the kind of woman who bows easily to the will of another. Man, legionary… or god.’

Click here to buy Garro: Knight of Grey.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Great Britain in 2023.
This eBook edition published in 2023 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 Neil Roberts.
Internal artwork by Mikhail Savier.

Garro: Knight of Grey © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2023. Garro: Knight of Grey, 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: 978-1-80407-295-0

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.

See Black Library on the internet at
blacklibrary.com

Find out more about Games Workshop’s world of Warhammer and the Warhammer 40,000 universe at
games-workshop.com

eBook license

This license is made between:

Games Workshop Limited t/a Black Library, Willow Road, Lenton, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, United Kingdom (“Black Library”); and

the purchaser of a Black Library e-book product (“You/you/Your/your”)

(jointly, “the parties”)

These are the terms and conditions that apply when you purchase a Black Library e-book (“e-book”). The parties agree that in consideration of the fee paid by you, Black Library grants you a license to use the e-book on the following terms:

* 1. Black Library grants to you a personal, non-exclusive, non-transferable, royalty-free license to use the e-book in the following ways:

o 1.1 to store the e-book on any number of electronic devices and/or storage media (including, by way of example only, personal computers, e-book readers, mobile phones, portable hard drives, USB flash drives, CDs or DVDs) which are personally owned by you;

o 1.2 to access the e-book using an appropriate electronic device and/or through any appropriate storage media.

* 2. For the avoidance of doubt, you are ONLY licensed to use the e-book as described in paragraph 1 above. You may NOT use or store the e-book in any other way. If you do, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license.

* 3. Further to the general restriction at paragraph 2, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license in the event that you use or store the e-book (or any part of it) in any way not expressly licensed. This includes (but is by no means limited to) the following circumstances:

o 3.1 you provide the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.2 you make the e-book available on bit-torrent sites, or are otherwise complicit in ‘seeding’ or sharing the e-book with any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.3 you print and distribute hard copies of the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.4 you attempt to reverse engineer, bypass, alter, amend, remove or otherwise make any change to any copy protection technology which may be applied to the e-book.

* 4. By purchasing an e-book, you agree for the purposes of the Consumer Protection (Distance Selling) Regulations 2000 that Black Library may commence the service (of provision of the e-book to you) prior to your ordinary cancellation period coming to an end, and that by purchasing an e-book, your cancellation rights shall end immediately upon receipt of the e-book.

* 5. You acknowledge that all copyright, trademark and other intellectual property rights in the e-book are, shall remain, the sole property of Black Library.

* 6. On termination of this license, howsoever effected, you shall immediately and permanently delete all copies of the e-book from your computers and storage media, and shall destroy all hard copies of the e-book which you have derived from the e-book.

* 7. Black Library shall be entitled to amend these terms and conditions from time to time by written notice to you.

* 8. These terms and conditions shall be governed by English law, and shall be subject only to the jurisdiction of the Courts in England and Wales.

* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

* 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.