Contents

Cover

Huron Blackheart: Master of the Maelstrom – Extract

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

One

Blood flows.

Not in veins, where evolution has dictated that it should, but over metal decking pitted with the gradual ravages of oxidisation that no amount of care could prevent. It dribbles down walls, from where it arced after being brutally released from its fleshy prison. It seeps into cracks and crevices. It pools in slight depressions, and drips through gratings to drizzle onto whatever lies beneath. The metallic tang of it is everywhere, mixing with the stink of burned hair, the chemical reek of promethium fumes, the sharp scent of cordite, and hints of ozone as the charged blades of power weapons gradually fuse the atoms of the air.

And through the blood comes the Blood Reaver.

Once, Lugft Huron was the Chapter Master of the Astral Claws. Once, he was a towering Space Marine warrior, the galaxy’s image of nobility and righteousness: at least, to those parts of the galaxy that cowered behind the shield his warriors made from their bodies, and their guns, and their will. Once, Huron believed in the Imperium, and in the Emperor, and in his Chapter’s duties: at least in his own way.

But in the Imperium there is little tolerance for any way other than that which the Imperium itself dictates. The tool that does not completely fit its role is eliminated; and if, like Lugft Huron, the tool is too tough and too stubborn to be properly eliminated, it is cast out.

The problem with that, of course, is that those who are cast out can come back. And when they do, their bodies and their guns and their will are no longer a shield, but a sword aimed for the heart.

Huron Blackheart looks around and sees death: not just death, but slaughter. This is not a military outpost; not an Astra Militarum barracks, an Adeptus Astartes fortress-monastery, or a convent of the Adepta Sororitas. This is Adeptus Mechanicus mining station Delta-Kappa-39006, plundering the mineral resources of an asteroid with a diameter of roughly three hundred miles, and its defences have been easily overwhelmed. The ships tasked with its protection were annihilated by the Spectre of Ruin within moments of its exit from the warp, and the Red Corsairs have overrun the station itself. Huron could have targeted the astropath’s tower, to ensure that the station could not call for help, but he has not cared enough to do so.

Let the blind psykers scream. Abaddon the Despoiler has ripped the galaxy apart, and the Imperium has far greater matters to attend to. No one is coming here.

‘Progress?’ Huron rasps. His voice is as damaged as the rest of him. What was once a commanding basso boom is now a phlegm-edged rattle. Sometimes it betrays him altogether, until his underlings can coax his half-dead flesh back into synergy with the mechanical implants that allow him some measure of control over his own body. These are souvenirs of events in the Palace of Thorns: a reminder of how the Imperium treats its own when they dare question an unfair system.

Still, damaged or not, Huron’s voice is acknowledged and obeyed just as fast as it ever was. Perhaps faster.

‘We’ve taken most of the complex, lord,’ a man replies, dropping to one knee, heedless of the bloody remains of a Mechanicus defender within inches of his leg.

The man is wearing a uniform that once belonged to a member of the Mordian Iron Guard, now with the aquila torn off and the epaulettes replaced by loyalist skulls. Perhaps he is its original owner. The Red Corsairs are a warband: the strong core of it is made up of renegade Space Marines, both from the old Astral Claws and those of other Chapters who have traded their former colours in for Huron’s, but great numbers of mortal warriors have also flocked to his banner over the decades. Huron welcomes all those who will fight in his name; or at least those who do so well.

‘“Most”?’ he repeats, and the ragged team of men and women stiffen. There are a dozen or so of them, armed with lasguns and autoguns, and Huron could tear through them all in a matter of seconds. They know this.

‘One part holds out, lord,’ the kneeling man says hoarsely. Perhaps he fears that Huron’s power axe will take his head, or the Tyrant’s Claw will envelop him in its crackling fingers and crush the life from him, or Huron will trigger the heavy flamer embedded in the palm of that power gauntlet and simply roast him alive. ‘There is only one access corridor, and the defenders are fiercer than we anticipated – combat automata, at least three of them.’ He begins to speak faster, perhaps hoping to head off the displeasure of the renegade standing over him. ‘If the lords of your brethren were willing, I’m sure they could attack that part of the complex from the outside, but we lack void suits and so–’

‘Enough.’ Huron cuts him off with a dismissive wave of fingers from the Tyrant’s Claw, and the man falls silent. Huron can hear his heart pounding, can see the pulse of the vein in his neck as his blood courses through him. Human blood, mortal blood; so very different from that which cycles through Huron’s twin hearts, and yet the basis for it.

Or so Huron presumes. He has been in the Maelstrom for years now, in that rift where the warp bleeds through and has its way with realspace. There is no predicting how the warp will change you: it defies logic, defies science, defies reason. The man kneeling in front of him, in fear of his life, may have already been altered. Perhaps his blood is no longer human, either. He came to the Red Corsairs as a weak mortal, the sort of malleable clay the warp can twist without effort.

Those possessed of a stronger will, on the other hand, can be harder to change; and there are few beings in the galaxy with a will stronger than that of Huron Blackheart. Most warriors, even those of the Adeptus Astartes, would have succumbed to the injuries he took in the retreat from the Palace of Thorns, rather than live on as he has. Part of that is due to a potent mix of spite and his indomitable spirit. Part of that is due to the skill of his loyal warriors Armenneus Valthex and Lord Apothecary Garreon, who worked to save him when he lay wounded. And part of that is because of the bargain Huron has struck.

He can feel a part of that bargain patrolling back and forth on his shoulders. The Hamadrya chitters softly as it phases into visibility, and the kneeling man looks up at the sound, then blanches and lowers his eyes again quickly. Huron finds the contrast amusing. A towering, horrifically scarred transhuman warrior in blood-red armour plate, wielding weapons of fearsome potency, is to be feared and obeyed; yet his daemonic familiar, a creature no larger than a domestic felid, is too unnerving to even look upon.

‘Combat automata?’ Huron asks, turning the words over in his mouth.

The Legio Cybernetica are formidable foes indeed; at least when they have a datasmith to update their command protocols, and adapt them to changing situations. A headlong rush into their guns will serve little purpose other than to amass skulls for the Blood God, and Huron prefers those sacrifices to be offered in scenarios where they will materially benefit him. He has brought a small number of Heretic Space Marines with him for this strike, oath-bonded killers with centuries of combined experience in bloodshed, and they could indeed approach over the asteroid’s surface and breach the last part of the complex from the outside. However, he is not certain he is willing to risk them on such an assault. Such is the weight of command, for Huron has no superior. Even as a Chapter Master of the Imperium, and supposedly the sovereign commander of the Astral Claws, he was expected to respond to the ‘requests’ made of him for aid. As Master of the Maelstrom, he has no orders to carry out save his own. There is no hiding place, should his strategies falter.

Perhaps another approach can be attempted.

‘Where is the start of this killing ground?’ he demands.

There is a pile of burned and pulverised bodies outside a pair of blast doors, and they bear the ragtag motley of the mortal warriors of Huron’s raiders, rather than the red robes of the defenders. The Mechanicus sigils over the door mean nothing to Huron, and he does not bother to call for any of the heretek priests who have accompanied his force on this raid to translate for him. Instead he simply presses the release, and steps to one side.

A roaring barrage of fire is the immediate response, as the incandescent fury of heavy phosphor blasters rips into the already half-melted bulkhead opposite. Huron keys the pad to keep the door open, and waits. After three seconds, the shooting stops, leaving the wall glowing.

‘Impressive,’ Huron rasps, pitching his voice to carry over the faint pinking of cooling metal. ‘To whom am I speaking?’

There is no reply from beyond the hatch. Huron listens intently. Kastelan battle robots, unless he misses his guess: mighty automata perhaps twice as tall as he is, ferociously tough and very well armed. If he hears them coming for him, he will have to be ready to react at a moment’s notice. There is presumably a reason they are holding this ground, though, instead of coming out to try and repel his force’s intrusion into the complex as a whole. Perhaps they will stay put for now.

There is still no reply.

‘Nothing to say?’ Huron asks the silent hatchway. No, not quite silent: if he strains his hearing, he can just make out the very faint buzz of the machinery and circuits of the warrior automata, although it is barely audible over the sound of his own armour. ‘You have just tried to kill me – do you not wish to know who I am?’

He closes his eyes, and reaches out with his senses. On his shoulder, the Hamadrya chitters a babble of quiet syllables that come close to being words, but which never quite develop that far. They ease his mind loose, allowing part of it to quest out in search of answers.

Blunt shapes, present and whole, entirely free from the spark of life, and yet animate. The kastelans: five of them, arrayed across the corridor. Huron can feel the belligerent energy of their machine-spirits, well suited to the task to which they have been set. And behind them…

‘There you are,’ the Blood Reaver whispers to himself, his dead lips twisting into a smile.

Behind them is true life. One soul only, about whom fear hangs as thick and obvious as captured banners on the walls of a warlord’s hall. Fearful, yes, but also resolute of purpose. If it is just a labourer taking shelter behind these guards then there is no way through that will not claim a high price in blood; perhaps higher than Huron is willing to pay for such uncertain reward. If, however, it is the Legio Cybernetica datasmith – the one who controls the kastelans – then another approach is possible, and Huron has always been one to keep his options open. The commander who leashes themselves too firmly to a course of action is the one who will find themselves led by it, and not the other way around.

‘A formidable force you have there,’ he says. ‘Too formidable to leave intact to serve the Imperium. Even now, my warriors are tearing this complex apart to secure the materials we came for. When we are done, I will have my ship level it. We have the weapons and the precision to achieve it, believe me.’

Still no response. No words, no attack. However, Huron can sense fear surging higher. Whoever this is, they have not progressed far enough down the path of the Machine Cult to eliminate all their emotions.

‘I am Huron Blackheart, master of the Red Corsairs,’ Huron says conversationally. ‘Who is it who has stalled me so?’

Still nothing. Until–

‘Cybernetica Datasmith Griza Dallax,’ comes the reply, the words tinged with both fear and pride. ‘I command these machines, so do your worst.’

‘My worst?’ Huron gives a breathy chuckle. ‘My worst would see you reduced to your component atoms as your existence catches fire around you. Have you ever died, Magos Dallax? I have, or as close to it as makes no difference. Let me tell you that your last instants are stretched out into a subjective eternity. I came out the other side. I am not certain you would be so fortunate.’

Silence.

‘And what of your charges?’ Huron continues. ‘Valuable servants of the Omnissiah, all of them. Can they withstand an orbital bombardment? I doubt it. I am a practical man, and I detest waste. Perhaps I can offer an alternative.’

Magos Dallax does not reply, but Huron can practically taste the desperation on the air. He knows the emotion well. Dallax might stand alongside her kastelans and fight and die with them in the teeth of an attack, but to stand quietly and wait for obliteration? That is another matter entirely. And yet, fighting to the death as a last stand is a different matter to charging into the teeth of a superior enemy. One is a fight to extend your existence for as long as possible, the other actively seeks to end it sooner than is necessary.

A Space Marine of the Imperium, when faced with the choice, might decide to die in a manner of their own choosing. Magos Dallax is no Space Marine, however, and nor is she one of the skitarii, many of whom have little more free will than the kastelans, despite their biological parts. Dallax values her life enough to bite on the lure that Huron has left dangling.

‘What alternative can you offer, traitor?’

The voice drips with all the scorn that can be mustered through a vocal synthesiser, but even that cannot hide the desperate hope that lurks within. Magos Dallax may not agree to any alternative, but she will listen to it.

‘A simple one,’ Huron replies, as smoothly as he can despite his own vocal shortcomings. He was a great orator once – great enough to persuade the Lamenters and the Mantis Warriors to stand with his Chapter when he attempted to secede from the Imperium. His voice may have lost some of its charm, but the mind guiding it is, if anything, more finely developed. ‘I propose that you and your charges walk out and join me.’

‘Join you?’ There is a harsh bark of binharic laughter. ‘And become a traitor myself?’

‘That is up to you,’ Huron replies. ‘You can choose to die today, of course – end your existence on this miserable rock, and fail in your duty to care for the automata under your command. Or you can preserve your life, secure their ongoing function, and survive. Should you choose to, you can die tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. I assure you that the galaxy is never short of ways to die, and my warband in particular is full of them. If you feel you have chosen poorly, all you need do is direct your kastelans to kill me, or one of my lieutenants. Then you can die a hero’s death, striking at the Imperium’s enemies. Perhaps you will even succeed. What I can assure you is that if you stay where you are, you will kill no more of my troops. I will simply leave you there, and call death down upon you in my own time.’

Footfalls of ceramite on metal reach Huron’s ears. He did not bring many Space Marines with him, for this station did not require them, but the comm-bead in his ear tells him that they are all now on their way to his position. This is the last point of resistance in the complex, and they hunger for more combat.

They may not get it. He will have to see.

‘You would take my machines from me!’ Dallax accuses.

‘Why should I?’ Huron asks. ‘If you join me, you will direct them as I command you. If you refuse, I will kill you then, instead of now.’

‘You consort with hereteks and abominations!’ Dallax asserts. ‘They will seek to corrupt my charges!’

‘Then kill them,’ Huron says.

‘Kill them?’

‘Of course.’ Huron chuckles. ‘I prize loyalty to me. I am unconcerned about minor infighting. If some warpsmith or adept of the Dark Mechanicum attempts to take what is yours, kill them. If they have overreached themselves so greatly, and miscalculated their abilities so badly, I have little use for them in any case.’

Huron waits while Dallax considers this. The Adeptus Mechanicus, like most of the Imperium, is a place of strict hierarchies. Dallax will be used to obeying the orders of her superiors, going where she is sent and performing the tasks to which she is assigned, and having to petition for resources from those who might not understand her immediate needs. Huron knows that despite the fact the Machine Cult professes to despise such weak, human concepts as emotions, its adepts can become very attached to the machines for which they are responsible.

The notion of freedom enforced by strength, the freedom to adapt or innovate away from the Mechanicus’ hidebound regulation, might hold appeal to a certain mind. As might a life where someone who threatens a machine, or denies the machine something it needs, can simply be killed with no repercussions.

These perceived freedoms are a lie, of course. But they are perhaps more honest lies than the ones peddled by the Imperium.

‘I would not corrupt machine-spirits for you,’ Dallax says, and Huron grins.

‘I would not expect you to. I am interested in the results, not the methods. If you can achieve what I require without resorting to such techniques, I will not censure you.’

This is the true lure of Chaos. Not the sensual blandishments of the Dark Prince, or the mindless slaughter of the Lord of Skulls: for all that they are gods of Chaos, they have their own rules, and they bend their adherents to their will in their own way. No, this is the appeal of Chaos in the sense that it is the opposite of order, that it will upset convention, and bring about change. A Space Marine Chapter Master might declare himself planetary governor in order to better use the assets of his system; he might hoard resources to put them to best use, and when his supposed masters attempt to bring him to heel, he might turn on them and deny their right to command him and his warriors.

A Cybernetica datasmith might ponder the wisdom of a doctrine which declares that she should die fruitlessly in defence of a mining complex already lost to the enemy. She might consider that even if she should somehow survive, she will surely be executed and her robots redistributed, once her superiors discover her supposed failure.

Besides, there is no reason why saving herself, and her precious automata, need lead to corruption. Perhaps she can resist the temptation to stray from the Omnissiah’s light. Perhaps she can even do good, by driving corruption out of other machines, with five kastelans to back her up. Perhaps she can pick a moment to deal some damage to the Red Corsairs from the inside, and actually aid the Imperium in a far more meaningful manner than a few drops more blood spilled in a mining complex already awash with it.

And as Huron has already pointed out, Dallax can always choose to die tomorrow.

The Space Marines of the Red Corsairs have arrived now, in blood-coloured armour adorned with the cracked emblems of their previous allegiances and scrawled over with new dedications. Some seek the patronage of one dark power or another, others honour all four, while still others claim no master at all save for themselves; and Huron Blackheart, of course.

Huron signals them, and they raise their weapons and ready themselves. If Dallax refuses, Huron will withdraw from the complex and level it. If Dallax claims to accept, she will walk through that doorway in the company of five deadly battle automata. A tech-priest who has been overcome by a desire to sell her life dearly might choose that method to get as close as she can to as many of the enemy as possible, before breaking her word and ordering her charges to attack. Huron is taking no chances: he is favoured by the warp, thanks to the bargains he made decades ago, but only a fool trusts that the power of Chaos will always, reliably, keep him safe.

The gods do love their little jokes.

‘Very well,’ Griza Dallax says, her augmented voice heavy with trepidation. ‘I agree to your offer.’

‘I agree to your offer, lord,’ Huron corrects her. ‘You need not mean the honorific, but I will have it from you.’

A pause.

‘I agree to your offer, lord,’ Dallax repeats, and if her voice is flat and emotionless, who can fault her? Not Huron. He knows that where the voice leads, the mind will often follow. When Dallax starts to repeat Huron’s title without having to think about it, then a part of her brain will, on some level, have accepted it.

‘We are done here,’ Huron declares. ‘We will commence withdrawal. If you truly wish to accept my offer, magos, you will deactivate your robots’ combat protocols and lead them out here.’

He waits. He is not impatient. The Imperium’s fear of a machine-intellect means that any entirely cybernetic creation must have no will of its own. It can only be programmed by another, and that involves removing and replacing the sanctified doctrina wafers. The Mechanicus’ battle automata are not best suited to quickly react to a rapidly changing combat situation, but once they have been given their orders, they are fearsomely effective at prosecuting them.

Finally, he hears the heavy tread of gigantic metal feet. The Red Corsairs move into deadly readiness, for although they are renegades and heretics they are still Adeptus Astartes, still the finest mortal warriors in the galaxy.

The first automata steps through the doorway. Huron stares up at it, waiting for the first twitch of its arms or canopy weapon mount which will suggest that it is about to attack; waiting for his Hamadrya to squeal an alarm, and the air to thicken around him as the gifts of the warp speed his senses and cloud the vision of his enemies to ward him from harm.

Nothing happens. The automata steps forward and is followed by another, and another. Then, shuffling along between them, comes the red-robed figure of Magos Griza Dallax.

She is tall enough to look Huron in the eye, but the frame beneath her robes is whip-thin instead of the massively bulky physique of a Space Marine, and the eyes that can be seen beneath the cowl of her hood are myriad and mechanical. She looks Huron up and down, taking in the blood-soaked magnificence of his power armour, and focusing on the dead flesh and cybernetic augmentations of his face and neck.

‘Magos,’ Huron says with a grin. ‘So glad you could join us. I’m sure you’ll find your place without delay.’ He raises his voice as far as he can, and the broken crackle of it snaps out harder than a power lash. ‘Back to the Spectre! I want this station burning and us back into the warp within the hour!’

His Space Marines relax from their readiness and move smoothly from covering the automata with their boltguns to heading at pace for the landing craft in a clatter of ceramite footfalls. Huron turns away from his newest ally and points at the man in the Iron Guard uniform, who drops to one stained knee again.

‘You. Take your team and check that area for anything valuable.’ He smiles, and spittle dribbles from his dead lips. ‘I advise you to hurry.’

‘Yes, lord!’ the man stammers, and he and his followers break into a run, weaving between the passive kastelans and heading for the doorway. Dallax flinches away from them, as though expecting an attack, but none comes. Huron ignores the tech-priest, and walks back through the bloodstained corridors.

Dallax will follow, or she will not. If she follows, she will live, at least for a while. If she stays, she will die.

It is no true choice, but it is the same choice the Imperium gives its citizens every day.

Click here to buy Huron Blackheart: Master of the Maelstrom.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2022.
This eBook edition published in 2022 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 Jake Murray.

Huron Blackheart: Master of the Maelstrom © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2022. Huron Blackheart: Master of the Maelstrom, 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: 978-1-80407-072-7

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

For my Necromunda campaign group, in thanks for all these years of treachery, bloodshed and genestealers in unfeasibly small boxes.

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.