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Hell’s Last – Extract

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

I

The Valkyrie’s retro thrusters fired a final time, but Lord General Bendikt could not wait. Even as the landing gear scraped down onto the rockcrete pad, he was already striding out from under the shadow of the craft’s wing. The Kasrkin of First Company, Cadian 101st, nicknamed ‘Hell’s Last’, hurried to keep up.

The shadow of the late Colonel Baytov hung over them. Just takes one sniper to get lucky, Ostanko had reminded them all, and they were alert for any sign of danger as Bendikt crossed the cracked rockcrete forecourt and a security detail strode forward to check his credentials. Adjutant Mere hurried to intercept them. They were local defence force: Golden Bannermen, the local hieroglyphic declared, Tenth Cohort.

The approaching troops carried laslocks over their shoulders, and wore conical salakot helmets atop purple-and-gold flak tunics. Their commander was a thin man with long moustaches and he held a moon-shaped halberd erect at his side. He bowed deeply as Mere announced Lord General Bendikt, and his whole squad bowed with him.

‘We know,’ the Bannermen’s commander said, but his reverence was not so much towards Bendikt as it was the blade he carried. ‘And we are honoured to welcome the great Lord General Isaia Bendikt, Bearer of the Sword. The blade of Saint Ignatzio Richstar!’

Bendikt held the broadsword up. The scabbard was plain Cadian issue, but the true provenance of the blade within was clear as soon as it was drawn. Its craftsmanship spoke of its forging on Holy Terra in the earliest days of the Imperium of Man. It had been preserved for thousands of years on the crypt world of Potence, taken from the saint’s stasis tomb by Lady Bianca Richstar and presented to Bendikt for the crusade that was to rid the Gallows Cluster of heretics. It was the blade that had ended the life of the enemy general upon Crannog Mons, the Traitor Rock. It had killed many more heretics since. It was the finest sword Bendikt had known, of a quality that the weaponsmiths of the Astra Militarum could no longer match.

As the saint’s sword was presented to them, the local troops bent even lower. Bendikt and Mere exchanged glances.

‘The saint sees your respect,’ Mere said as Bendikt hurried past, ‘but we are expected inside.’

It took an hour for Bendikt to pass through the series of checkpoints, razor wire barriers, and sandbagged defences, but at last they were through to the high commander’s office, where an Oukk Dragoon stood in ceremonial armour. He had a nasty scar disfiguring half his face and dragging down one side of his mouth, and he spoke with a slight slur which irritated Mere even more.

‘Apologies for the delay,’ he said. ‘This planet, it’s hard sometimes to tell who is on our side.’

‘We’re all servants of the God-Emperor,’ Mere replied.

The other man pulled a face that might have been a smile. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you, considering what the Thrice-Bound have done to half the planet. But it seems the Richstars are not popular with all the locals.’

‘They seem popular with those Bannermen,’ Bendikt said.

The Dragoon’s grimace was unmistakable. ‘For what that’s worth. The last checkpoint is ahead. Praetorians insisted…’

Bendikt exchanged a look with Adjutant Mere. Warmaster Warmund had failed to mention the local commander was Praetorian…

The Praetorians’ scarlet greatcoats were studded with brightly polished brass buttons, their white flak armour and pith helmets recently whitewashed, the braid at their shoulders stiff as their expressions.

They shared none of the local troops’ enthusiasm as they saw the Cadian officers approaching. As Bendikt handed over his idents they oozed hostility, summoned their commander. He had a bushy mutton-chop moustache and took in the Cadians with undisguised disgust. ‘Lord General Bendikt. Cadian Hundred-and-First. General de Barka is waiting for you.’ He almost spat the words.

‘De Barka?’ Bendikt enquired.

The Praetorian’s narrowed eyes were a flinty blue. ‘Correct. Ser Horation de Barka. Nephew to Ser Reginald de Barka.’

Bendikt returned the other man’s icy stare with interest. It had been nearly ten years since the duel in which Bendikt had killed Reginald de Barka. It was in the aftermath of the loss of Cadia, and the Praetorian had mocked the Cadians. Bendikt had buried his blade in the fool’s guts, an action that had blighted his career ever since. But he had not regretted it, not once. Nor did he regret it now as he shook the other man’s hand in a vice grip.

‘I look forward to meeting him,’ Bendikt said. ‘I hope he has better manners than his uncle.’

Bendikt and Mere passed across a stone bridge over a bubbling black moat and crumbling packed-earth wall, topped with coils of razor wire, its red-painted plaster flaking away. The gatehouse was a stone building with heavy wooden pillars holding up a tiled roof with upturned eaves, each golden tile emblazoned with the Imperial aquila. They passed through to inner courtyards with vast murals of Saint Ignatzio Richstar and the God-Emperor in local garb, moon-shaped halberds in their hands, through another hall into an inner walled compound, within which stood the Richstar Clan Hall.

Granite steps led up to heavy cinnabar columns, and the yawning gateway to the hall beyond.

‘More bloody Richstars?’ Bendikt snapped.

Mere had done his homework. ‘A different branch of the family. Unlike the coreward regions, the hierarchy is not based on the principle of primogeniture, but is passed down through all members of the family. There are thousands of them who claim direct descent from the saint. Their leaders meet here to decide collective leadership.’

Bendikt’s expression said it all. An army needed a leader, not a committee.

At the top of the stairs, there was one last checkpoint.

‘Yes,’ Bendikt snapped, ‘I am the Lord General Isaia Bendikt.’

The officer’s eyes narrowed.

Bendikt said, ‘Listen. General Reginald de Barka insulted my home world. I called him out, and damn it, the God-Emperor judged him and found him lacking.’

‘That’s not what I heard,’ the officer said. He was tall and lean, with buck teeth and a narrow chin. His hand started to move towards the pommel of his sword.

‘Don’t,’ Mere said, putting his hand to his own pistol. But Bendikt stepped forward, and put his augmetic hand over the other man’s.

Bendikt spoke in a low whisper. ‘What is your name, captain?’

‘I am Captain Skinner.’

Bendikt’s hand closed. ‘Listen, Skinner. I have the greatest respect for the Praetorian Guard, but I would not have your family grieving their dead son.’ There was a low crack as his fingers tightened.

Mere and Prassan, the 101st’s quartermaster, stepped before the other Praetorians. Skinner’s nostrils flared as the cracks continued. He went pale as Bendikt smiled.

‘Our enemy is out there,’ the lord general said. ‘Remember that.’

Bendikt’s jaw was set as he patted the other man’s shoulder, then stepped through the checkpoint. ‘Mere,’ he cursed, as they went inside, ‘how come they breed Praetorians quite so stupid?’

Long banners hung down from the exposed rafters of the clan hall, each one inscribed with prayers of devotion to the Golden Throne.

‘Not a single nail, apparently,’ Mere said, but Bendikt had no interest in the niceties of the room’s architecture. He barely glanced at the rafters, or the heavy cinnabar columns that held them up; his attention was firmly fixed on the other officers in the room.

Half represented solid regiments of the line. The other half were drawn from the Gallows Cluster. Potence Rifles; Oukk Dragoons; Gilgamesh Jaegars; Blackrock Hussars. Bendikt was unimpressed. Too much braid and too little grit. All he could think about was the fall of Tor Jahore. Three Drookian regiments had been thrown piecemeal into the battle there, but none of this lot.

A Vostroyan major with baggy eyes and moustaches that hung to his chest expressed the sentiment in the room best. ‘Lord General Bendikt. You cannot imagine how glad we are to see you. The Praetorians are presiding over a total shitshow.’

Bendikt nodded. ‘I’ll do my best. But I have not been given command of this planet. My regiment are only here in a supporting role.’

The Vostroyan’s face fell a little. He was about to respond when a gong sounded and a grav-dais appeared at the end of the long chamber.

Vox-speakers projected the voice of Lord General Horation through the clan hall. Horation, a Praetorian, dabbed away the sweat on his brow as he explained the current military situation in a dull monotone. ‘The local commanders have been removed. They worked under the premise that Tor Jahore was impregnable. General Eligio von Richstar is assumed lost. The performance of their regiments so far has been below the standard I would expect of Imperial troops. As you know, we have been brought in to establish order and control. Our enemy are barbarians. Met with the might of the Astra Militarum, they will crumble. I expect the mopping up operation to take a mere matter of months.’

Horation went on. The heat was insufferable and Bendikt felt his temper rising.

‘Sir,’ he said at last, ‘we’re not facing a heretic rabble. The enemy here are the Thrice-Bound. Believe me. I’ve met them. They are a ferocious enemy.’

One of the Praetorian officers hissed with irritation. Horation looked up. ‘Who spoke?’

Bendikt took a step forward, his Cadian drab uniform stained with salt marks, and damp with sweat. ‘I did. With all due respect, sir.’

Horation laughed. ‘They are spinward barbarians, from worlds barely capable of sustaining urban life.’

Bendikt stepped closer. ‘That’s true. The Thrice-Bound are from the harshest planets on the very edges of the Gallows. They are hard, ruthless, determined. The Scourged have been devoured by the Thrice-Bound, their shock troops absorbed into the armies of Hel. Their leader, Drakul-zar, was terrified of them. General Eligio von Richstar underestimated our foes at every stage. I would not have you make the same mistake.’

‘Silence!’ Horation roared. ‘I do not need lectures from you, Cadian. I was given command here. Not you.’

Bendikt started to argue, but another of the generals cut him off. ‘General Bendikt. No one doubts your courage, but it is Horation de Barka who commands this battlefront. Not you, or your Cadians.’

Bendikt bit his tongue and remained silent. It was a fact.

His fury grew, but in truth he felt impotent.

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2025.
This eBook edition published in 2025 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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Cover illustration by Darren Tan.

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