Contents

Cover

Shrike – Extract

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

The forest was all. The forest was everything.

Shrike crouched behind the tangled bough of an immense bolas tree, carefully measuring every breath, every rustle or creak of movement. Sunlight pierced the canopy high above, dappled shafts questing through the lattice of branches to pick out an overturned stump here, a bundle of exposed roots there. To Shrike, the forest had taken on an eerie, ghostly quality, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath, anticipating what might come next.

It had been three hours since he’d moved, and even the bolas tree had relaxed in his presence; its roots had once again begun to worm their way through the topsoil, digging for nutritious beetles. Birds and howler feeks darted amongst its upper branches, and Shrike had become so attuned to the ambient noise that to him every twitch of a wing, every scratch of a claw, sounded like a thunder-clap. Even his own pulse, wilfully slowed to a sluggish, occasional thud, was like an explosive charge detonating inside his head.

He blinked, and his lids scraped across the dry, glassy surfaces of his eyes. He was ready, waiting for his moment to pounce.

He wore nothing but a light loincloth, his pale, thewed torso exposed to the elements. He’d shed his clothing the moment he’d entered the forest, aware of how it hindered his movement, how the rustle of fabric alerted those around him. The last thing he needed was to draw attention. He knew all too well that there were predators in the forest.

Today, he was one of them.

Shrike allowed another breath to whistle out between his teeth. He eyed the fallen branch, no more than a few feet away. It rested on the mulch of the forest floor where it had fallen, jutting from amongst the decaying leaves like the felled antlers of some gigantic beast. Moss had begun to creep up the sides of it, slowly subsuming it, pulling it back down into the earth. Nature moved swiftly on Kiavahr, always anxious to reclaim its own. Soon one of the sleek Kiavahran ravens would land here, searching amongst the foliage for grubs, and then he would make his move.

That was the reason he was here: to prove his worth, to claim a raven as his own.

Success was essential. He had allowed himself no other option. To succeed today was to become one of the Raven Guard, the Emperor’s champions, the black-clad warriors from the sky – to sail out amongst the stars, bringing redemption to the many worlds of the Imperium of Man. Even the thought of it made Shrike’s pulse quicken, and he quashed his rising sense of anticipation.

All he had to do was catch a raven and take its skull as his personal totem, his corvia. That was all – the final challenge, the last stage of his initiation. After so many trials, both physical and mental, this was the moment that truly mattered.

It sounded such a simple task: a single, solitary bird, from a forest of thousands.

He’d lived alongside the ravens his entire life, throwing them crumbs from his table, whistling along to their birdsong as he traipsed through the forest as a boy. To Shrike, they’d been a constant presence, as familiar to him as his own shadow.

Only now, he had to catch one and wring its neck. More than that, he had to do it with his bare hands.

Shrike steadied his nerves. He had to remain focused, to stop his mind from drifting.

The forest was all. The forest was everything.

This was his mantra, the means by which he banished all unwelcome thoughts. He repeated it, rolling it over in his head. To fail now would be to remain here, on Kiavahr, for the rest of his existence. To never fulfil his potential and take to the stars.

He was one of many aspirants, and he knew that only a handful of them would succeed. He’d watched some of the brightest and best of his clan fall by the wayside during the physical trials that preceded the hunt, and as he’d watched them skulking back to their arboreal domes, he had vowed never to join them in their regret and dismay. He was made for the stars. He was made for war. He knew this with a certainty that he had never known anything else before. Nothing would stand in his way.

Two of his clan brothers were close by. He could sense them, lurking amongst the bolas trees in search of their own prey, their own path to glory. They, too, had been hand picked from their clan by the Space Marines, deemed worthy to test their mettle against the trials and earn their place as initiates in the order.

They were close to the sacred burial site of the Space Marines, here, a part of the forest forbidden to mere younglings such as Shrike, Corus and Kadus. It hadn’t stopped them, however, imagining the training exercises taking place inside. They’d even crept close on one occasion, scaling the nearby bolas trees to peer in over the compound walls, but had been able to discern nothing amongst the inky shadows inside.

This was where the successful initiates would be taken for their training, before going on to Deliverance, the moon that served as the Chapter’s fortress base. Shrike had often stared up at that glimmering orb, awed by how distant it seemed. Today, it seemed a little closer, almost within reach.

He’d seen what became of the initiates, the changes wrought on their physique and attitude – how they went in as boys and came out as… something else – but the notion didn’t frighten him. Indeed, he relished the prospect. He longed to become more than he was, to belong. He longed to defend his home and the homes of others oppressed by the alien menace, to expand his horizons beyond the forest and know the secrets of the universe.

Shrike breathed. He closed his eyes, banishing all thoughts of Corus and Kadus, and the ebon-armoured warriors in the compound.

When he opened them again, a raven was perched upon the fallen branch. He felt his hand trembling. This was his chance, the moment he’d been waiting for – not for three hours, but for his entire life.

The bird had its back to him, preening its feathers with its beak. He took a moment to admire its beauty. That’s what the instructors had taught them; there is beauty in life, just as there is beauty in death. The ravens were noble creatures, smaller kin of the great rocs that lived in the mountains, and had dwelt on Kiavahr longer than man. This was their forest, and Shrike knew he would do well to respect that.

He moved, just a fraction, testing himself: one small step, inching around the bough of the tree, never taking his eyes from the bird. He felt the roots of the bolus freeze, and he did the same.

The bird twitched, shaking its wings, and then began pecking at the damp foliage that still clung to the branch, flipping the leaves over with its beak. It was searching for grubs. Not much of a last meal, Shrike mused, but he hoped it would find a juicy one.

He took another step, this time leaving the confines of the tree and edging closer to the bird. Slowly, so as not to attract its attention with sudden movements, he brought his hands together before him, so that they formed a sort of cup, the fingers splayed. He took a third step.

If the bird had noticed him, it showed no sign, continuing to ferret noisily beneath the leaves. A fourth step brought him almost within reach. He could feel the mud squirming between his toes, the dry leaves scratching at his bare ankles, but still he did not make a sound.

The bird jerked its head back suddenly. For a moment he stood, stock still, fearing it was about to take flight, but it had only found a grub and was busy throwing it back down its throat.

Shrike didn’t even allow himself a sigh of relief. He took his final step towards the fallen branch, extended his hands, his fingers taught and ready… And a sound from somewhere close by – the snap of a twig underfoot – caused the bird to panic and take flight.

Shrike lurched at it, his fingers brushing its wing, but he was too late, and in a heartbeat it was gone, fluttering off into the treetops.

Furious, he turned on the spot, looking for any sign of the perpetrator, but there was no one there, and the forest was still.

Cursing, Shrike rubbed his shoulders, trying to get the blood circulating quicker, and returned to his spot behind the bolas tree to await his next opportunity.

There was still time.

The Thunderhawk banked sharply, traversing an unexpected patch of turbulence. The vehicle shook so violently that the plasteel substructure in the main hold emitted a loud groan of protest, and a series of impact alarms trilled in the cockpit. The pilot deftly wrestled with the controls, forcing the ship back level, while his co-pilot checked the system monitors, before punching the alarms to silence them. They cut out as suddenly as they had started.

The ship continued its subsonic descent, skimming low over the wreckage of a civilian city and stirring the surface of an abandoned water farm into a frothy churn. Two sister ships, each identical save for white-and-black markings on their wingtips, dipped low alongside it, flying as a unit, as a single wing.

If the enemy knew the Raven Guard had arrived, they’d shown no sign of it; the descending formation of three sleek, black vessels had drawn no fire from the surface of the occupied world.

The sudden jarring caused Shrike to start from his reverie. Distant, half-forgotten memories of Kiavahr dissolved, ephemeral, impossible to cling on to. He let them go. He had a mission to fulfil, and within moments they’d be making planetfall. Now was the time to focus, and to let all thoughts of the past – or future – dissipate. If there was one thing he’d learned during his many decades as a Space Marine of the Raven Guard, it was to live in the here and now. It was the only way to remain alive, and to execute one’s mission effectively.

He peered out of the viewing slit, attempting to get a measure of their surroundings. He’d studied hololiths back on the battle-barge, of course – vid-captures of the planet’s surface, of the devastation wrought by the marauding xenos – but they’d seemed distant and unreal. Now he was here, on Shenkar, he could see for himself what the greenskins had done.

Shrike was standing in the hold, his power armour mag-locked to the flight-clamps, and he twisted, pulling against his restraints to afford himself a better view. Below the ship, the ruins of countless buildings flitted by, a sea of grey and black, of rubble and burned-out husks, punctuated only by the glowing pyres that still smouldered amongst the remains of the city. Here, great edifices had once been raised to the glory of the Emperor; here, colonnades of immense statues had celebrated the heroes of old; here, the Administratum had overseen the fates of twelve neighbouring worlds. Now, Shenkar was a shell, shattered by an unstoppable tide of green that had swept across the planet’s surface, revelling in its utter destruction.

So far, from what Shrike understood, this northern hemisphere had been completely lost, but the legions of the Astra Militarum were hunkered down in the south, bombarding the advancing ork lines with an array of heavy artillery. It was a tenuous position, however, and one that would also soon be lost, without intervention. Shrike had overheard Shadow Captain Saak discussing the matter with one of his sergeants on the battle-barge, and it seemed the Imperium was close to abandoning the planet altogether. The loss would be a grave blow – Shenkar would serve as a staging post for the ork forces to run rampant throughout the entire system, and the Astra Militarum would lose numerous planets that had previously served as recruitment worlds. Additionally, the Shenkar system was a gateway to Imperial space; if the orks managed to gain a foothold here, then further systems would also be at risk.

Shadow Captain Saak had been clear: if the threat was to be contained, it would be contained here, and now.

The role of the Raven Guard was not, as Shrike and his brothers had initially anticipated, to lend reinforcements to the Astra Militarum. Instead, they were to deploy deep behind enemy lines, here amongst the ruins of Shenkar Prime, and attempt to disrupt the ork command. The greenskins were not known for their discipline and organisation, and Saak believed that by cutting off communications from the centre, they would effectively be decapitating the main ork advance. Without command the orks would run riot, and the Astra Militarum would stand a far better chance of breaking their advance and taking back the ruins of the planet. It was an audacious plan, and one forged, Shrike believed, in desperation. Nevertheless, his faith in his captain was unswerving, and he knew without doubt that they would succeed.

Below, the landscape had changed. The once sprawling city was bisected here by a wide gulf, a canyon that had opened up in the substrate, like a gaping wound in the face of the planet. Bleached white chalk – the colour of Shrike’s own flesh – was visible, the hidden layers of muscle and sinew that bound the world itself together. The city, it seemed, had been built on a vast plate of impacted chalk, and whatever the orks were now engaged in was rending it apart.

The nose of the Thunderhawk dipped, and Shrike turned away from the viewing slit, regarding his brothers in the hold. There were ten of them back here, as well as the crew up front in the cockpit. All of them wore the gleaming black ceramite of their Chapter, each daubed with kill markings and draped in honour scrolls and ancient Imperial litanies. Bulky jump packs were secured to their backs, and their chainswords and pistols hung ready. Bunches of corvia swung from their belts: the bird-skull totems claimed in the forest as a part of their initiation into the venerable ranks of the Raven Guard, along with those of their fallen battle-brothers, carried as a mark of honour until they might be returned to Kiavahr, and the soil from whence they came.

Directly across from Shrike stood Kadus, his armour mag-locked to the flight-clamps, watching him with a curious expression. His beaked helmet was affixed to his leg brace, and his jaw was set in a mirthless grin. He carried a bright purple scar across the lower half of his face, where he’d once caught the talon of a vicious tyranid creature, before forcing a grenade down its gullet and blowing it apart from the inside. Shrike knew he carried other scars from that encounter, too – not all of them visible.

Beside Kadus was Aarvus, who had also removed his helmet, but was peering out of another viewing slit, his face turned away from Shrike’s. Half of Aarvus’ head was covered in thick, wiry stubble, while the other was a mess of blistered and bubbled flesh, long healed, but brutally disfiguring. Aarvus had received his injuries during the same campaign as Kadus, fighting tyranids on the icy wastes of Permius IV, and had fallen victim to the hot, acid breath of a genestealer. It had claimed his left eye and right hand before Corus had gunned it down with his bolter. Aarvus rarely spoke of the incident – in fact, he rarely spoke at all, given the state of his lower jaw – but his distaste for xenos was legendary amongst the Third Company, and Shrike suspected he was anticipating planetfall with a grim sense of glee. Corus would have to watch him – he was a fearsome warrior, devoted to his Chapter, but his hatred for the greenskins might prove counterproductive if not properly contained.

Stood beside Aarvus was Gradus, one of the finest warriors Shrike had ever known. A master of infiltration and assassination, he had been responsible for the victory of the squad on too many occasions to count. He’d saved Shrike’s life at least twice – that Shrike was aware of – and soon, Shrike was certain, Shadow Captain Saak would reward Gradus with a promotion and his own squad. When the time came, it would be well deserved.

On Shrike’s left were Kadryn, Ayros, Arkus, Hirus and Cavaan, five warriors with whom Shrike had served for nearly two decades, and in whose hands he would happily place his fate as surely as those of Captain Saak himself. Now, they each stood silent, patiently anticipating whatever fate awaited them on Shenkar.

Sergeant Corus stood at the rear of the compartment, near to the disembarkation hatch, rocking slightly with the motion of the ship. He must have noticed Shrike looking, for he inclined his head in acknowledgement, before turning away to study the read-out on his auspex.

These were his brothers in arms, his comrades. Together, they had fought across deserts of bone dust and ice, in the bowels of hive cities and the mountainous peaks of airless moons. They’d killed traitors, destroyed xenos nests and liberated entire worlds. They’d fought alongside the Titan legions and Imperial Guard. Now, for the very first time, they were about to undertake a mission against the greenskins; thirty of them, spread across the three gunships, deploying in the midst of thousands.

Shrike knew with a grim certainty that not all of them would leave this planet alive.

The rear disembarkation hatch sighed open to reveal a large, open plaza. To one side, broken pillars grinned unevenly like jagged teeth, while the burned-out husk of an Administratum building still smouldered on the other. The ground here was covered in soot and ash, but had once been smooth, polished marble, and Shrike could still see the outline of the twin-headed Imperial aquila imprinted in it, now partially eclipsed by the footprints of the three Thunderhawks.

Above, the sky was a pale, watery blue, smeared with inky fingerprints of smoke. Black dust swirled around his knees, stirred by the vehicles’ cooling engines. He was grateful for the respiratory filter in his helm.

The Thunderhawks had formed a protective laager within the plaza, back-to-back, so that the Space Marines could disembark into the central space, using the gunships as cover. Sentries from Saak’s squad had been set up around the perimeter, but as yet had reported no sightings of the enemy. It seemed Saak had chosen his insertion point well; even the contrails of their ships were now lost amongst the columns of smoke rising from the east. The distant rumble of battle would have masked any sound of their approach.

Shrike only hoped their intelligence was correct. The reports had come in from the Militarum Tempestus regarding the probable location of the orks’ main command post. He’d have been more comfortable if the reconnaissance had been carried out by the Raven Guard’s own Scouts, but he supposed they would have to put their faith in the lesser skills of the humans, and that the orks hadn’t moved on in the two days since the report had been filed.

Shadow Captain Saak seemed confident in the humans’ abilities, however – or if he wasn’t, he was hiding it well. He’d predicated their entire mission on intelligence gleaned from their Tempestor Prime, via a risky surface-to-orbit vox-link. Now, he was gathering the three squads together for their final briefing.

Shrike joined his brothers at the foot of the lead Thunderhawk’s disembarkation ramp, upon which Saak now stood, surveying his gathered troops. He was an impressive figure, resplendent in a suit of ancient, ebon armour that dated back to the days of the Great Crusade itself. It was a Chapter relic, worn by innumerable shadow captains of the Third Company over countless centuries, and rumoured to carry their spirits still, imbued within its pitted, burnished surface. Bundles of bleached-white corvia hung from Saak’s belt, each and every one of them a reliquary for a dead brother.

‘Twelve hours,’ began Saak, without ceremony. ‘We maintain long-range vox silence. Remember your briefings. Timing is paramount. Your lives, and the lives of your brothers, depend upon it. Take out their power, take out their communication, take out their command.’ He stood for a moment, silently looking out across the sea of black helms, and Shrike couldn’t shake the feeling that the captain was staring directly at him, weighing him up, judging him.

‘Victorus aut mortis,’ he said, crossing his arms in their Chapter salute.

‘Victorus aut mortis,’ murmured Shrike, echoing the captain’s salute.

He was part of the squad that would disable the orks’ communication network, under the command of Sergeant Corus. The Militarum Tempestus had identified three crude antenna placed at intervals around the city, Shenkar Prime, each feeding the orks’ command bunker with reports from the field.

This bunker was, in effect, a warren of caverns carved into a chalk cliff on the outer edge of Shenkar Prime. The city had been built in a vast natural bowl – in theory rendering it more easily defendable – and the cliffs skirted the city in all directions; imposing white sentinels from a distant age.

It was rumoured that the orks’ warlord, Gorkrusha, was also operating an experimental weapon from the bunker – a kind of ‘seismic agitator’, or earthquake generator, which they’d employed in levelling many of the surrounding structures and disrupting the Imperial forces. During their earlier briefing they’d been warned of sink-holes and dangerous chasms opening unexpectedly in the ground. He’d heard that the Astra Militarum had lost an entire platoon, heavy artillery and vehicles included, when a major thoroughfare collapsed, dropping them into a river of scolding magma.

Shrike didn’t know whether that was fanciful embellishment by the humans, an excuse for their ineptitude, or a truthful representation of what had occurred here on Shenkar. He supposed he would soon find out; Sergeant Corus was gathering his squad now, making ready to deploy.

Shrike’s task – along with his brothers – was to blow the transponders within the allotted time, ensuring the bunker was shrouded in a complete blackout when Saak’s squad moved in for the final assault. The comms blackout would ensure no warning of the Space Marines’ presence here could get to Gorkrusha, giving Saak and his squad a chance to gain entry to the bunker and move freely, taking the entire ork command by surprise. It was a bold plan, but a good one, and Shrike was confident the planet would be as good as liberated by sundown.

He turned at the rumble of distant thunder, looking upwards for any sign of a storm closing in, half expecting to see a squadron of Valkyries flitting overhead, but the skies remained clear and blue.

Frowning, he looked to his brothers, and saw Gradus jabbing his finger towards the ground in warning. The earth beneath Shrike’s boots had begun to tremble, and he could feel a distant thrumming, far below the surface, like the pounding of a sledge-hammer against the very core of the world.

The rumbling continued to grow in intensity, making it difficult to maintain his balance. He heard Corus calling out for them to head to higher ground, and did as he was ordered, casting around in the ruins for a more stable position. He found one, clambering up onto a heap of fallen stone.

The rumbling had now reached a crescendo, and the Space Marines had all scattered, leaving the plaza empty, save for the three Thunderhawks, which bucked with the turbulence as if shaken by the throes of atmospheric re-entry. A rending crack split the air, originating somewhere deep within the planet’s crust, and one of the Thunderhawks listed awkwardly, the ground simply falling away beneath it. Shrike watched in horror as the earth opened its maw and swallowed the vessel whole.

A moment later the rumbling eased, reduced to the minor tremor of an aftershock, and Shrike leapt down from his perch, searching for Kadus and the others, who had begun to reassemble in the plaza.

They watched Shadow Captain Saak approach the sink-hole with caution, peering after the missing vehicle. After a moment, he turned to his troops. ‘The vessel and its crew are lost. Avenge them. Go to it. We have witnessed here what these xenos are capable of. We must put an end to them before this day is out.’

‘So the rumours are true,’ said Kadus, falling in beside Shrike as they filed from the plaza. ‘The greenskins have a new weapon.’

‘That is no mere weapon,’ said Shrike. ‘With that machine, they could crack this planet open like an egg – swallow entire battalions. Think what they could do if it were replicated across other worlds.’ He glanced at Kadus. ‘Whatever it is they’re doing here, it has to be destroyed.’

‘Then we do as the captain says,’ said Kadus. ‘We neutralise the transmitters. We shut down their power, and we allow Saak to take out their bunker and their command.’

Shrike nodded. Kadus was right. The mission was more crucial than ever.

They passed through the city like spectres, ghosting from the wreckage of hab-blocks to manufactorums, through deserted streets still echoing with the reverberation of spent shells, over heaps of turned earth and rubble that had once been other, now indiscernible, buildings. Their passage went unremarked, save for the flutter of birds, disturbed by the crunch of their passing boots, and the roar of their jump packs. To even the most vigilant observer, these Space Marines of the Raven Guard would have seemed as nothing but shifting shadows, subtle alterations in the quality of the light as Shenkar’s twin suns danced in their odd, elliptical orbit, far off in the void above the planet’s surface.

Human corpses littered the alleyways and roadsides, churned by the passing of ork vehicles, or abandoned where they’d fallen to form grisly, decaying heaps. The loss of life here was monumental; this city had once teemed with hundreds of thousands, if not millions of Imperial subjects. Now, aside from small gatherings of refugees hurriedly being evacuated to the south and the Astra Militarum forces engaged against the xenos elsewhere on the continent, the place was devoid of life. The orks had brought their own, peculiar form of destruction to Shenkar, and it was absolute.

Shrike longed to return the compliment. He was spoiling for a fight. Every corpse, every wasted human soul he encountered, was a tally mark, a debt to be repaid by the enemy, and he promised to avenge them all.

There was evidence of the ork weapon here, too – or rather, evidence of the devastation it had wrought. Enormous canyons, some of them stretching for miles, had rent the chalky substrate in two, toppling ancient structures, rupturing fuel pipes and causing aftershocks that would have reduced the city to ruins, were it not for the hail of bombs that had already done the job. Sink-holes had opened up in many of the roads, rendering some of them impassable and forcing Shrike and his brothers to break cover, using their jump packs to boost themselves into the upper reaches of the ruined structures, from which they could clamber over the craters on tentative bridges formed from the iron skeletons of former domiciles. It was almost as if the planet itself were attempting to swallow all signs of human occupation, opening its many mouths to feed.

As they ran, homing in on their target – the first of the communication arrays they’d been tasked with destroying – Shrike noted that an unfamiliar sigil had been daubed across many of the walls and surfaces in brightly coloured paint. The symbol was crude and primitive, resembling nothing so much as a grinning animal face, with two enormous tusks jutting from its lower jaw. This, he presumed, was the glyph of the ork warlord, the one referred to as Gorkrusha. This creature was the driving force behind the orks’ rampaging invasion of Shenkar, and the primary target of Shadow Captain Saak’s mission when his squad raided the bunker in just a few hours’ time.

Out here, in the shattered wreckage of the city, the glyphs were a stamp of ownership, Shrike knew – an attempt by Gorkrusha to lay claim to the planet, marking territory like an alpha-predator. It worked, too; Shrike couldn’t shake the feeling that the glyphs had eyes and were silently watching him as he searched out a path in the wreckage, moving ever on towards their next fight.

Static suddenly bubbled in his ear.

‘On me! We have live enemy in the road.’

He turned to see Hirus up ahead, raising his bolt pistol. A group of nine orks were clambering out of the tumble-down wreck of a substation by the side of the road – a patrol, perhaps, or a small group of looters. Hirus had drawn them out, of course; the Adeptus Mechanicus who crafted their ebon armour had long ago discovered a means to make it light absorbent, rather than reflective, giving the Raven Guard the aspect of living, ghostly shadows, and ensuring that they were only ever seen when they wished to be.

The orks represented a risk to their mission, however. If they weren’t taken out immediately, they might be able to report back before the Space Marines were able to destroy the transmitters, or worse, warn the guards at the transponder stations that they were coming.

Corus knew it, too. His voice crackled over the vox. ‘Engage. Make it quick and clean.’

Shrike charged, loosing off a spray of rounds as he barrelled up the road towards the orks, his brothers falling in around him.

The orks, too, wasted no time, their pistols barking as they took pot-shots at the charging Space Marines.

Shrike worked in concert with his brothers, as they had so many times before – fanning out, selecting targets, adopting positions in the road. Within moments, the ebon-armoured warriors had encircled the orks.

Shrike stood his ground as one of the greenskins lumbered towards him. The creature was as tall as Shrike and half as broad again, even taking into account his power armour. Its flesh was a pallid, unnatural green, and it wore sheets of beaten metal, laced together over scraps of clothing. Crude patterns had been daubed across this makeshift armour in bright yellows and reds, and primitive glyphs had been smeared onto the shoulder plates in a strange approximation of the markings on Shrike’s own armour. Its hands were the size of a human’s head, and in both fists it carried hunks of sharpened metal with bolted-on grips, like axe heads with no attendant haft. Shrike had no doubt that the brute strength of the thing could punch one of those blades through even the toughest war-plate.

The beast’s head was enormous, sitting almost uncomfortably on its considerable shoulders, and its face was untamed and savage – not in the way that the wild beasts of Kiavahr were sleek and powerful and primal, but in a raw, brutal, horrifying way. Yellowed tusks jutted from its lower jaw, and its eyes burned with a hate so ferocious that Shrike could almost sense it as a tangible thing. It was monstrous – the enemy of all reason. Shrike knew that he had to kill it, and quickly.

Bolter fire erupted over Shrike’s left shoulder, as Arkus engaged one of the other brutes. Shrike followed suit, squeezing the trigger of his own weapon and loosing a shower of bolt shells at the creature before him. They thudded into its armour plating, bursting flesh and spraying gouts of thick, red blood into the air with every impact. The ork, however, seemed undeterred, and with a bellow came barrelling at him, axe blades held aloft.

Shrike fired off another few rounds from his bolt pistol as the creature closed the gap between them, but this was clearly not a battle that was going to be won with indiscriminate fire. He revved his chainsword and charged, closing the gap between them.

The ork lurched forwards, swinging one of its axe blades down and round in a powerful arc, aiming to split him in two at the midriff. Shrike moved, dodging out of the way and bringing his arm up and forwards, so that his chainsword twisted, glinting between them, opening the ork’s face in the process.

It bellowed some obscene curse in its strange, guttural language, shaking its head to try to clear the blood that was now streaming into its right eye. The gash had split the creature’s face from its cheekbone to its forehead, and Shrike could see bone where the tip of his chainsword had scored its skull. The ork, however, seemed more frustrated than pained by its injuries.

Shrike circled warily, unable to take his eyes off it. The vox suddenly crackled to life in his ear.

‘Go for their throats,’ said Gradus. ‘That’s where they seem to be most exposed.’

A quick glance told Shrike that Gradus had managed to bring one of the beasts down, and was now assisting Hirus with another.

The glance, however, was all the distraction the creature needed, and it moved with surprising agility, surging forwards and catching Shrike unprepared with a sudden upward blow from its axe. The force of the strike lifted Shrike from his feet, sending him careening backwards into the air, so that he collided with a broken pillar that was lying in the road. Warning sigils flashed up inside his helm. He blinked them away, suppressing the pain. Luckily, the axe hadn’t opened his armour. He might not be so fortunate the next time, however – the ork was advancing again, both blades raised above its head, ready to cleave him apart.

Shrike leapt sideways as the ork closed in, its axes smashing down into the stone pillar with an echoing crunch. The pillar cracked, splintering apart in a shower of dust.

Shrike rounded on it, just in time to see Cavaan launch himself at the ork from behind, burying his combat knife between the creature’s shoulder-blades. It roared and spun, whirling its axes and catching Cavaan in the shoulder as he leapt back. His pauldron burst in a shower of adamantium, and dark, arterial blood arced into the air, spattering the ork’s face and staining the parched earth.

Cavaan staggered back, fumbling for his bolt pistol, while the ork flexed its shoulders, trying to shake the combat knife loose. Shrike could see the weapon now, jutting out between two sheets of its thick armour plating. The blade had clearly struck home; the creature was more agitated even than when he’d turned its face to ribbons with his chainsword.

Cavaan was still backing away, his bolt pistol gripped in his good arm, but the ork had now turned its attentions to him and was advancing menacingly.

Shrike activated his jump pack with a sudden roar. He felt the surge of power at his back, pushing him down, and fought the urge to angle his body upwards. He shot forwards like a loosed bolt-round. His dipped shoulder collided with the ork’s back, square between the shoulder-blades, throwing the creature forcefully to the ground, and sending Shrike off into a wild spiral, twisting through the air, until he cut the power and came tumbling back down in a heap, close to where Cavaan was standing. The injured Space Marine regarded him with what Shrike could only assume was bemusement.

‘An unusual tactic, brother,’ said Cavaan, holding out his good hand and hauling Shrike to his feet.

The shock of the impact had caused more warning sigils to flare inside Shrike’s helm, but he blinked them away. He was still clutching his chainsword, and he held it out before him as he approached the prone ork. As he drew nearer, he could see that the impact had forced Cavaan’s blade clean through the creature’s chest and out the other side, splintering its ribs. It wasn’t breathing. He lowered his chainsword. ‘I’ll allow you the pleasure of recovering your own blade,’ he said, without hiding his distaste.

‘My thanks,’ said Cavaan.

Shrike surveyed the scene. The road was littered with corpses. Mercifully, they all appeared to be xenos. The fight had been more brutal than any one of them could have anticipated.

His brothers were regrouping beneath the cover of a nearby hab-block, the upper storeys of which had been destroyed during some previous, hellish battle. He went to join them, Cavaan at his side.

Corus was consulting his auspex, and he looked up as Shrike approached. ‘Target acquired,’ he said. ‘Over that ridge to the west, about half a mile. Kadus, Shrike, Cavaan, Aarvus, Gradus – circle around to the far side and take up positions. Ayros, Kadryn, Hirus, Arkus, with me. We close in on their position like a tightening noose. When I give the order, move in and set the place alight.’ He paused for a beat. ‘Understood?’

‘Understood,’ echoed Shrike, along with his brothers.

He turned to see Kadus already making a bee-line for the ridge, beckoning for him and the others to follow.

Shrike peered over the lip of a fallen tree, studying their target and its attendant xenos guards. His bolt pistol was trained on the nearest ork, and he was ready to put a round into its throat at the slightest provocation. There were twelve of the brutish creatures milling about in the vicinity of the communications array, wearing makeshift armour and carrying snub-nosed pistols and chainblades. They appeared to be distracting themselves by taunting a smaller, skittish, green-skinned creature, whose sole purpose seemed to be to provide entertainment for the guards. Its big ears flapped unhappily as it received another booted foot in the ribs and went sprawling in the dirt, eliciting another round of hideous, rasping laughter.

The communications array was a bristling spire of antenna masts and aerials, at the centre of a nest of powercells and cables. It had once been of human construction, feeding official transmissions out across the city, but now it had been co-opted by the xenos. Their primitive technology had been spliced in and bolted on, hijacking the main rig and redirecting the traffic, on a frequency the Astra Militarum had found almost impossible to intercept. Even if they had managed it, Shrike mused, he couldn’t imagine they’d have understood much of what they’d heard.

To his left, Cavaan lay hunkered down amongst the foliage of the downed tree, the nose of his bolt pistol just visible to Shrike’s trained eyes. To his right, Gradus was similarly positioned, pressed flat amongst the exposed roots, ready to swoop in as soon as Corus gave the order.

Shrike scanned the far side of the aerial cluster for any sign of the others. Nothing. Seven of the orks were still busying themselves with the runt, while the others appeared to be engaged in a game involving bone dice and fists. Now would be the perfect time to act.

He decided to risk a short burst on the vox. ‘Sergeant?’ he whispered, his voice barely audible inside his helm.

‘Hold your position, Shrike,’ came the terse response.

Shrike squeezed the grip of his bolt pistol a little tighter, but did as Corus had ordered. The orks were growing tired of their sport, however, and he could see the moment was going to pass. He wondered what Corus was waiting for; no doubt something that Shrike himself couldn’t see. Perhaps he was just being impatient.

The vox crackled to life again a moment later. ‘Go.’

Shrike sprang up into a crouch with a subtlety and grace that seemed incongruent with his armoured bulk. Around him, his brothers did the same, forming a ring around the small encampment.

Their jump packs roared as they powered into the air, swooping down on the unsuspecting orks, who, stirred by the sudden noise, abandoned their games and leapt to their feet, reaching for their weapons.

The runt, clutched over the shoulder of one of the orks who had his back to Shrike, gave a sudden squeal of alarm, waving its arms in an ungainly, excited fashion. Shrike caved in its pathetic skull with a single round.

Another shot punctured the back of the ork’s neck, blowing a hole in its throat, and the chainsword stirred to life in Shrike’s fist as he dropped to the ground, ripping through the ork’s chest to finish it off before it had even drawn its weapon.

Shrike twisted at a guttural roar from behind him to see another ork launch itself at Ayros, its chainblade skewering the Space Marine between the shoulder-blades, rending his jump pack and bursting from his chest in a shower of blood and cartilage. Ayros screamed, a visceral, rending cry that reverberated across the vox, as the chainblade carved his innards to pulp.

The ork gave a grunting snort that Shrike took to be a laugh, as it lifted the impaled Ayros on its blade, causing him to gurgle and vomit blood that seeped out beneath his helm.

As the dying Ayros slumped back onto the sword, falling into the gleeful ork, he thumbed the detonator on a krak grenade in his fist. There was a moment’s pause, and then the grenade exploded.

Shrike recoiled from the blast, staggering back as the force of it hit him. When he looked again a second later, all that was left was the steaming lower half of the ork, lying in a perfectly smooth crater, and a handful of black fragments that had once been armour.

Sound and light erupted all around him in stuttering bursts as the rest of the Raven Guard stirred to life, dropping from the sky, bolt pistols barking, chainswords raging.

Shrike circled the transmitter, spraying a cluster of three orks with a hail of fire, shredding the face of one in the process. Its limp, lifeless body slumped to the floor, its skull shattered by the impact of the shells.

Another ork fell, too, its face a mess of bubbling wounds as an explosive round blew out its left eye socket, while another opened a fist-sized hole in its throat. It dropped to its knees, emitting a wet gurgle, before collapsing face down in the dirt.

Shrike realised Corus was bellowing commands over the vox. ‘Shrike. Blow the transmitter.’

‘Sergeant,’ he acknowledged, levelly.

He edged around the antenna cluster, keeping his fire concentrated on another of the orks, which was taking pot shots at Gradus and Hirus as they tried to circle around it, trapping it between them. A lucky round found its mark, blowing the creature’s hand clean away from the stump of its wrist and sending its pistol spinning into the dust in a spray of blood and fingers. It howled in pain, glancing in disbelief at the ruin of its appendage, just as Gradus launched himself at it, his chainsword severing its throat so deep that he almost lifted its head from its shoulders. They both went down heavily in a tangle of thrashing limbs.

Shrike moved. Three steps took him to the central column of the array. Warning sigils flared inside his helm as a stray round from a pistol scored the back of his vambrace, but he ignored it.

All around him the chatter of bolter fire, the roar of the xenos, the battle-cries of his brothers, the sound of chainblades chewing into ceramite – they merged into a cacophony, a discordant symphony of war. It made his pulse quicken and his blood sing. He longed to turn, to let loose on the filthy xenos who had taken Ayros, to join his brothers in the heat of battle. The more of the orks he could take down, the better. Yet he knew the mission was paramount. Shadow Captain Saak was depending on them.

Carefully, Shrike clambered over the lower stanchions of the rig, searching for a suitable location. He found it near the base of the secondary column, amidst a bundle of winking diodes: a control matrix or transmission exchange.

‘Get clear!’ he bellowed, as he primed a krak grenade and dropped it into the nest of wires. He stepped back, and turned directly into the path of a buzzing chainblade.

The ork stood over him, spittle dripping from its massive jaws. One of its teeth was freshly broken, and blood streamed from a gash in its upper arm. The chest-plate of its armour was splashed with crimson gore that Shrike was sure was not its own. Another of his brothers had fallen to this beast.

Shrike twisted, but the ork moved with surprising speed, and the chainblade bit deep into his left pauldron. Alarms buzzed, and Shrike pulled back, trying to put some space between himself and the blade. The ragged teeth of the chainsword had chewed deep into his armour, though, and as much as he attempted to lurch back, he couldn’t free himself of its bite. The krak grenade was going to detonate at any moment.

The ork laughed, revving the blade slowly, taunting him as it slowly ripped through the final layer of ceramite and scored a deep cut into Shrike’s upper arm. He clenched his jaw, fighting against the surging pain, and kicked out at the ork, catching it square in the chest with his boot. The blow struck with such force that it dented the metal plate and staggered the creature.

This retaliation did little to dissuade it, but that had not been Shrike’s intention; he was merely buying himself a second to consider his options. His combat knife was still in its sheath, but getting close enough to use it without losing his arm would be problematic. He could detonate another grenade, just as Ayros had, but he couldn’t risk the obvious sacrifice, not with two further arrays still to be destroyed, and a ticking chrono working against them.

He’d have to lose the arm, then. Go for the knife, allow the arm to be severed, and take the ork’s jugular as it struggled to free its trapped blade. About to act, Shrike paused in surprise, as another ebon-handled combat knife whistled past his head, burying itself in the creature’s right eye.

The ork released its grip on the chainsword, both hands going up to its face, but the knife had been thrown with tremendous force, and had burst the eye, the tip of its blade coming to rest deep inside the creature’s brain. It scrabbled for a moment, trying to pull the blade free, before one of its legs gave way, and it slumped to the ground in a heap.

Shrike powered his jump pack and shot into the air as the rig blew in his wake, the krak grenade toppling the main antenna array with an explosive crump.

Shrike set himself down, stumbling onto one knee on the uneven ground. He twisted to see Corus standing close by, pulling his combat knife free of the smouldering ork corpse, implacable behind the mask of his beaked helm.

‘My thanks to you, sergeant,’ he said. He indicated the chainblade still buried in his pauldron. ‘If you’d do me the honour?’

Corus walked over, grabbing the handle of the weapon. ‘Prepare yourself,’ he said, and then fingered the trigger. The blade roared to life again, and pain flared in Shrike’s shoulder. He was glad he was wearing his helm, lest he display his discomfort to his sergeant.

Corus yanked on the blade, pulling it free from the deep scar in Shrike’s armour. He tossed it, still churning, into the nest of cables at his feet, causing sparks to pop and flare from where several of the power leads were severed. Smoke curled from the ruins of the array.

Shrike could feel blood flowing freely down the arm of his power armour, now, pooling at the wrist. Almost immediately, however, his enhanced circulatory system flooded the wound with analgesics and clotting fluids, stemming the blood loss and numbing the pain. He flexed it experimentally. It still worked. It would heal soon enough.

Around them, the last of the orks were engaged with three Space Marines apiece, and Shrike could see the tide had already turned in the Raven Guard’s favour. Another of his brothers – Kadryn – lay dead close by, his body neatly carved from shoulder to hip. Shrike allowed himself a momentary pang of regret.

‘Time to move out,’ said Corus. ‘Finish them.’

Shrike took up his chainsword, ready to join his brothers.

‘Not you,’ said Corus, holding out a staying hand. ‘You retrieve Kadryn’s corvia. His gene-seed will burn with this rig, but it is our duty to honour him still. Today, that burden is yours, Shrike.’

‘I accept it with honour, sergeant,’ said Shrike.

Chainsword in hand, he crossed to where Kadryn’s remains lay in a growing pool of his internal fluids. They were mingling with the dust, already beginning to congeal. Shrike surveyed the corpse dispassionately. Kadryn’s torso had almost been severed in two by a chainsword similar to the one that had carved up his own shoulder, and the ragged-edged wound glistened with fresh, weeping gore. Shrike suppressed his rage. Kadryn had done his duty, as had Ayros, and thousands of others before them. Just as Shrike himself would do without a moment’s hesitation.

‘I will honour you, brother, in the forests of Kiavahr. I shall restore your corvia to the ground from whence they came. Your sacrifice was not in vain.’ He reached down and, using his combat knife, cut the tiny bundle of raven skulls free from Kadryn’s belt. He held them up to the light, counting seven of them, before standing and tying them to his own belt, adding them to the growing number that hung there. The company had lost many in recent months, and he hoped that before long they would return to Kiavahr to pay tribute, and to swell their ranks with more worthy initiates.

He turned at the sound of another strangled death cry, to see the last of the orks crumple, two chainswords jutting from its thick neck.

‘Move out,’ said Corus, quietly.

Shrike heard no murmur of argument from the others.

He didn’t look back.

Click here to buy Shrike.

To all my friends at GW past and present – with thanks.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2016
This eBook edition published in 2016 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Akim Kaliberda.

Shrike © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2016. Shrike, Space Marine Legends, 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: 978-1-78572-518-0

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

(2) the purchaser of an e-book product from Black Library website (“You/you/Your/your”)

(jointly, “the parties”)

These are the terms and conditions that apply when you purchase an e-book (“e-book”) from Black Library. 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; and

* 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.