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Spear of Ultramar – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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One

Spear and Hammer

The frame of the sandglass is wrought iron, and unadorned. It holds the crystal bulbs in a stern grip, as unyielding and blank to entreaty as time. It once belonged to Guilliman’s adoptive father, Konor. It has been in his private senate chambers in Macragge Civitas, and by chance and strength, it has survived the blows and tumults of war. The crystal is scarred, the iron scorched with burns, but the sandglass has travelled from Macragge to the battleship Ultimus Mundi. It was ancient when it belonged to Konor. It is too imprecise for practical use, but as a personal goad it serves well. Over a foot high, it stands on a corner of Guilliman’s desk. He began to use it shortly after the engagement with the World Eaters in the Diavanos system. It is not the approximate hour that the sandglass marks that is important to him. It is the sight of the falling grains, and the slipping away of time they represent.

Guilliman turned the sandglass over for the first time and let the sands fall when he saw the signs that the nature of his role in the war had changed. Horus had hurled a gauntlet to keep Sanguinius and the Blood Angels from reaching Terra. Guilliman countered by forcing the larger portions of the enemy forces to deal with him and his larger fleet, opening the way for Sanguinius.

Recently, the enemy’s tactics have altered. And now, what the Ultramarines have found, or more particularly have not found since arriving in the Apamea system, is confirmation that the war has entered another phase.

Titus Prayto and Drakus Gorod enter Guilliman’s study. The Librarian of the Ultramarines and the commander of the Invictarus Suzerain Bodyguard both have expressions suggesting a cautious, guarded, puzzled optimism. Prayto has the features proper to a warrior-scholar, sharp and thoughtful, his gaze always observing, and guarded against easy conclusions. Gorod, in contrast, is massive even by the standards of Legiones Astartes, his hulking shape belying his nobility and intelligence.

‘It is as the initial scans suggested,’ Prayto says. ‘The enemy has abandoned Apamea.’

Guilliman nods. On a monumental, circular, oaken table in the centre of the study is a vellum map of the galactic south. On it, Guilliman has laid obsidian icons representing the Ultramarines fleet and the traitor forces. The positions are speculative. He moves them around a lot. He takes into account what little concrete information has come his way, but the map is a vast theoretical. He uses it to play out scenarios, to pace through one narrative after another of the progress of the war, to find the most likely, and use that to guide his own actions. He has left an enemy icon over Apamea. Now he removes it and holds it, pensively working through where he should place it next.

‘Where are they?’ Gorod asks. ‘This system is a great prize to give up without a fight.’ Apamea has two forge worlds. It is still far enough from Terra that its position is not strategic, but if Guilliman can use it to resupply his forces, so can Horus. What Horus cannot do, and Guilliman will, is gather more willing, loyal armies to bolster his strength further. Even if blocking the Blood Angels is no longer a priority, Apamea is worth holding under most military considerations. Only a very select set of circumstances would dictate abandoning it.

‘There is no sign of a conflict?’ Guilliman asks.

‘Very little,’ says Gorod. ‘Some signs of conquest, yes, when the traitors took the system. But nothing recent.’

‘They pulled out,’ Prayto says. ‘They were not driven out.’

‘So where did they go?’ Gorod wonders.

‘Here,’ says Guilliman. He places the icon next to the largest mass of enemy fleets, in the broad vicinity of Terra. There is no doubt about the pattern he is seeing now. The Ultramarines have encountered at most token garrisons in the last few systems. And now nothing. ‘Horus is feeling pressed,’ says Guilliman. ‘If he is abandoning what he has held, then his goal is more urgent, and more critical, than stopping Sanguinius.’

‘We can theorise the Blood Angels have reached Terra, then,’ says Prayto.

‘I believe so. There are two things that would force his hand. That is one of them. The other is the pressure we are exerting. Theoretical – the Blood Angels are on Terra, and Horus feels he must lay siege to, and break, Terra before our arrival, or he will lose what advantage he has. And there is Beta-Garmon.’ He points to the system on the map. ‘It is the gateway to Terra. We are reaching the point in this war where speculation will vanish. We will know what Horus must do, and he will know the same of us. And in the end, this is the essential truth. If he is to have a chance of taking Terra, it must be soon.’

‘This is if he means to conquer the Throneworld,’ says Gorod. ‘And not simply destroy it.’

‘He won’t,’ Guilliman says. ‘I thought I knew my brother, and I was wrong, on many levels. But I can still recognise Horus, even through the atrocities he has committed. And I recognise his approach to war. Destroying Terra will not satisfy him. He will not be satisfied unless he feels he has defeated our father. He will not rest until he has proven his superiority. That need is a flaw. It buys us time.’

‘Enough time?’ Prayto asks.

Guilliman glances at the grains draining into the bottom bulb of the sandglass. ‘That is our duty now. To ensure the time we have is enough.’

‘Guilliman will come to Carchera,’ Warsmith Khrossus says. ‘That is not in question.’

‘His arrival is not the question that concerns me,’ says Vûrtaq.

‘I don’t think there are any questions left at all,’ Darhug says.

Khrossus is silent for a moment, regarding his captains. They are both right, he thinks. And he is sure they both know it.

Like him, the captains’ faces are scarred with the decades of battle. Lank, black hair hangs over Darhug’s heavy brow. His eyes, sunken and shadowed, are bitter coal; Darhug buried his last ideas of hope long ago. The fire in his gaze is the smouldering, eternal burn of an underground seam.

The flames in Vûrtaq’s eyes are brighter, more feverish. His scars stand out an angry red against his pale skin, and his jaw works convulsively when he isn’t speaking, as if he were grinding hate between his teeth. He is more reckless than Darhug, though Khrossus has never had cause to fault his discipline when it comes to obeying orders and following the battle plan. Strategically, if Darhug is steady as an artillery barrage, Vûrtaq is the torpedo. Khrossus needs their complementary strengths for the campaign he is mounting.

Khrossus’ flesh is a grey of scabbed wounds and the angry pink of burn scars. He has been battered and burnished by war into an ingot of human iron. He knows what he looks like, and what he looks like is war, savage and ugly. This is as it should be. He bears the face of truth, and he is proud to do so.

The three Iron Warriors are standing at the exit of the pass leading to the industrial hive of Siderius. The rockcrete of the road is pitted and uneven, broken up by the weight of the countless transports that carried the output of Siderius to the outlying cities. The mountains press close around the forge city. Peaks are high and jagged, and cliff faces sheer granite, as if hacked by a god’s cleaver. Siderius is in a narrow bowl of a valley, its existence due to the immense riches of the region’s ore deposits, and the insatiable need to extract them.

In the depths of the valley the air is still, but above the mountains the winds blow with perpetual hurricane violence. Siderius has no space port. There is not enough level space to accommodate one, and the winds are a threat to any aircraft that might try to take off from the city.

The structures of the hive are cramped, built one on top of the other until the city resembles a frozen geyser of metal. The air in its valley is black and almost thick enough to drink. The smoke from thousands of chimneys wreathes Siderius in the ghosts of industry, the thick shroud streaked by the flames of burn-off and the glow of forges.

Khrossus recognised Siderius’ potential value as a fortress the moment he laid eyes on it, when the Iron Warriors took the Carchera system. Using the hive as a central keep, it would be possible to hold Carchera against a superior force for some time. Only it isn’t merely a superior force that is heading for the system. And holding the planet is not the primary mission.

You will block him, Perturabo told Khrossus. You will block Guilliman and you will bloody him, for as long as possible.

‘If Horus wants the Ultramarines stopped,’ says Darhug, ‘it will take more than us to do it.’

‘He doesn’t need them stopped,’ says Khrossus. ‘He wants Terra, and to get Terra, he needs Guilliman slowed and damaged. So we make his fleet bleed and we kill his momentum.’

‘For how long?’ asks Vûrtaq.

‘Until the last man standing.’

‘How will we know that will be enough?’ asks Darhug.

‘We will make it be enough.’

Darhug snorts. ‘I’m sure Horus will remember us in fine speeches once he is Emperor.’

‘When have we ever been thanked?’ says Khrossus.

‘I do wonder,’ Darhug says, ‘what we gained in trading one master for another.’

‘Meaning,’ says Khrossus. ‘We gained meaning.’ He thinks of the years of the Great Crusade, of the grinding marches and endless, debilitating sieges. The Iron Warriors did not ask for glory. They did not expect it, and they did not care for it. Khrossus mistrusts any legionary who celebrates battle. Any soldier who exults in war does not truly understand what it means. What Khrossus does ask for is purpose. He asks that his suffering and that of his brothers has a point. There was no purpose in serving the Emperor. Khrossus came to realise that. The Great Crusade had been constructed around a facade of purpose, when the reality was simply the destruction of one set of cultures in order to replace them with another. Khrossus has long since failed to see how one lie is better than another.

Iron within, iron without. That is the only truth he acknowledges, and it is the one constant that has never abandoned him. It sustained him during the darkest moments of the Meratara Cluster campaign.

Where is truth? Where is purpose? They lie in discipline, and in the full understanding of war. War is pain and death and destruction, and that is all that it is. There is no glorious dream at the end of it. War cannot bring about utopia. That is the great lie, and Perturabo has broken his Legion free of it.

War is not a means. It is an end. Khrossus will never again be fooled by the illusion that it can be anything else. And since it is for war that he has been fashioned, then war is his end. If that end is coming for him now, that is cause for regret only if he allows himself to believe the lies.

Perturabo has given him a battle that he cannot survive, but that he can win, and for this he is grateful.

‘Our lives for Horus’ glory, then,’ says Darhug.

‘No,’ Khrossus tells him. ‘We do not fight for Horus. We fight for Perturabo. We fight for the truth, and the truth is iron. That is what we will teach Guilliman.’

His officers nod, grimly eager to teach the lesson. Then Vûrtaq looks over Khrossus’ shoulder. ‘The sorcerers are coming,’ he says.

Khrossus looks back towards the gates of Siderius. Five Word Bearers have left the city and are walking up the pitted road towards the Iron Warriors. All five are apostles, and wear robes over their armour, embroidered in the crimson sigils of their faith.

‘I almost envy them their truth,’ says Darhug.

‘I don’t,’ Khrossus says.

‘We’ve seen evidence that they might be right,’ Vûrtaq points out.

‘And?’ says Khrossus. ‘What of it? If there are gods, does that mean I should worship them? I do not see that one means the other. Iron, brothers. There is no higher truth than iron.’

‘Iron within, iron without,’ Darhug mutters, and Vûrtaq echoes him.

‘Anything else is superfluous,’ says Khrossus. ‘For us,’ he adds. He watches the Word Bearers approach. ‘But their truth gives them their own strength, and it has its use.’ He is going to shape the battlefield of the Carchera system into a worthy slaughterhouse, and the Word Bearers will help him do so. Khrossus knows that hope is an illusion, and he is going to strip that illusion away from Guilliman.

‘What were they doing?’ Darhug asks about the Word Bearers.

‘Inspecting their sanctuary,’ says Vûrtaq. ‘Deep in the hive. Well out of the way of the front lines.’

‘The battlefront will reach them, too, in the end,’ Khrossus says. ‘They know that as well as we do. They know how this struggle will end for all of us. They have their contribution to make, and to do it they need the isolation. They need the sanctuary.’

The Word Bearers arrive. Their leader, High Chaplain Ker Vanthax, nods solemnly to Khrossus. His brow is so heavy, his eyes glitter within shadows even under full sunlight. His skin is taut, and marked by a complex series of runes. His cheekbones are high, aristocratic, but his nose is missing. He is commanding, and he is grotesque. ‘We have made our preparations, warsmith,’ he says.

‘Then it can be done?’

‘Yes. The Ruinstorm is still strong in the vicinity of Carchera, and with it the influence of the warp on the materium. This system is ideal. We can do what you ask of us.’

‘Good.’ Khrossus turns to his captains. ‘Are we ready?’

‘Yes,’ says Darhug. ‘The final platform was being moved into position at last update.’

‘The Warforged awaits its orders,’ Vûrtaq says. He will take a strike cruiser against a fleet.

An echoing series of booms comes from inside the pass, followed by the long, rumbling roar of falling rock. The sealing of the pass has begun.

‘Let him come, then,’ says Khrossus. ‘Let him come.’

‘It is a strange irony,’ Ker Vanthax says, ‘that a portion of the Fourth Legion must be on the defensive end of a siege in order for a larger siege to begin.’

‘There is no such irony,’ Khrossus replies. ‘You do not understand what our strategies will mean for Guilliman. There is only the surface appearance of a siege here, and even that appearance is a trap. We are not fighting to hold Carchera. Siderius is not a citadel. It is an engine, and it is us who will be laying siege to Guilliman.’

‘That will surprise him,’ says Vûrtaq.

‘No,’ says Khrossus. ‘We will not surprise him. He will see the trap coming. But we will hit him so hard, his foresight won’t matter.’

The hololithic transmission plate of the Ultimus Mundi is on a dais towards the front of the bridge. Guilliman stands on it, speaking with the hololithic spectres of his officers on the other ships of the fleet.

‘Navigator Maesa has news for us,’ says Guilliman. He points, and the vid-feed lenses of the transmitter turn in the direction of Maesa. The images of the Ultramarines officers adjust controls invisible to Guilliman. Now they will see the bridge of the Ultimus Mundi before them, the projection of it solid enough that they can focus on it and filter out the background awareness of their own bridges.

‘Go ahead,’ Guilliman tells Maesa. ‘Describe what lies before us.’

‘The conditions of our next jump concern me,’ Maesa says. The navigator is a daughter of the House Pytheas, one of the magisterial houses of the Navis Nobilite. She is centuries old. Wisps of white hair, so fine they float at her slightest movement, shroud her skull. She is supported by an iron framework, but her presence commands the respect of deep experience. ‘The clear passage through the Ruinstorm narrows ahead,’ she explains. ‘It passes directly through the Carchera system. Given the length of jumps we are able to take while still being assured of remaining on course for Terra, our next passage through the warp will take us to the Mandeville point that lies within the system, at the narrowest point of our route.’

‘By your evaluation, Carchera is a choke point, then,’ says Guilliman.

‘I fear it is, lord primarch.’

‘An ideal place for an ambush,’ says Iasus, Chapter Master of the 22nd. Iasus’ noble profile bears the scars of these terrible years of war.

‘An inevitable one,’ says Guilliman.

‘You think the withdrawal we have seen does not extend to Carchera?’ Verus Caspean, Chapter Master of the First, is the only other officer physically present with Guilliman. He stands on a secondary transmission dais a few metres to Guilliman’s right.

‘If Horus is pressed,’ says Guilliman, ‘then he will have no choice but to seize any chance at all that might gain him more time. It would be strategic madness to pass up this choke point. A relatively small force could make a considerable difference.’

‘The mission would be a suicidal one,’ says Lucretious Corvo, captain of the Glorious Nova. The taciturn officer is learned, and Guilliman values his thoughts on strategy.

‘Do you have any doubt that Horus would hesitate to make that sacrifice? Particularly if he assigned it to another primarch’s Legion?’

‘No,’ Corvo admits.

Guilliman eyes the navigation map that Maesa has put up. The invitation to ambush is too perfect. ‘This is not a probability we are looking at,’ he says. ‘It is a certainty. We have moved beyond the theoretical and into the factual. Our practical must be based on this reality.’

‘If they hold the Mandeville point, they have the advantage of surprise,’ says Corvo. ‘They know where we must translate, and can prepare accordingly.’

‘Then we will remove that advantage,’ Guilliman says. ‘We know they will be waiting for us. There will be no surprise on either side. All ships will be on full alert. We will be going straight into battle when we translate into Carchera. We know the enemy will be there. We know he will attack. So will we. I want all weapons primed before we exit the warp. The entire fleet will fire a salvo at the moment we translate. We will make the ambush ours. Horus cannot spare a fleet, and even if he could, there is not a single fleet that can challenge ours. We have the overwhelming force. Our task is to render the ambush futile. If the enemy is concentrated at the Mandeville point, we will make him regret that decision.’

Guilliman’s officers acknowledge the order, and he ends the transmission. He walks over to where Maesa waits. ‘You have done well,’ he tells her, his eyes still on the map. ‘I might wish that your calculations were wrong, but I am grateful that they are not.’

‘I do only my duty, lord primarch.’

Prayto has been observing the conference with the officers from one side, and now he joins Guilliman before the hololithic display. Guilliman frowns at the tight convergence of vectors.

‘You don’t like where this is heading,’ Prayto observes.

‘I don’t like inevitability. I don’t like having my hand forced.’

‘The enemy’s hand is forced, too.’

‘Precisely. Everything here is inevitable. This war wants to destroy our belief in free will, Titus. It wants to make us believe we have to throw ourselves on the mercy of fate.’ Guilliman shook his head. ‘I will not capitulate. We will smash our way through, Titus. We will smash our way through, and we will steal the time Horus hopes to gain. We have to. Terra is waiting for us.’

Aboard the strike cruiser Cavascor, Iasus emerges from the hololithic communications centre, located just aft of the bridge. The sealed chamber makes better use of the ship’s energy. Big as the Cavascor is, it does not have the power of a battleship the size of the Ultimus Mundi. Captain Hierax of the Second Destroyers has been waiting outside for his Chapter Master, and the look on Iasus’ stern face confirms a great deal of what he already suspects.

‘The primarch suspects an ambush, then,’ Hierax says.

Iasus nods. ‘He is certain of it.’

The two Ultramarines fall into step beside each other.

‘How did he seem?’

‘Focused.’

‘As he ever is.’

‘Beneath that focus, he is bringing fury to Carchera.’

‘He is angry, then,’ says Hierax.

‘Who can blame him?’

The trust between captain and Chapter Master runs deep. It was not always so. Before the war, before Horus’ betrayal, Guilliman made Iasus Chapter Master of the 22nd, bringing in an outsider, passing over Hierax, who was senior captain. Iasus was not Terran. More crucially, he did not share the culture of the Destroyers. Time and battle have proven Guilliman correct in his choice. The two officers value each other’s skills, and in particular recognise the importance of their different temperaments. Iasus checks the more destructive impulses of the 22nd. He is more than a guarantor of discipline, because discipline is not something that any company or Chapter of the Ultramarines lacks. But under him, the Destroyers are the shaped charge they need to be. And when he must, Iasus knows when to rein them in.

In matters of strategy, Iasus will consult Hierax and listen to his recommendations. And once he has made a determination, Hierax has absolute faith that the Chapter Master’s decision is the correct one. Between the two of them, they have honed the blade that is the Destroyers. They are still the weapon that the rest of the Legion regards with some caution, and Guilliman never unleashes them without careful thought given to the consequences. He has, though, been sending them into the battle far more often since Calth. They are the embodiment of the primarch’s anger, for he is the Avenging Son. Though Guilliman is, above all, the consummate strategist, and though he is the great rationalist in a galaxy tipped into a madness of gods and daemons, he too has rage within him, and he knows how to use it.

‘He will want us in battle, then,’ says Hierax. He passes a hand over his forehead and scalp, the thick layers of scar tissue hard as gravel. Hierax has been disfigured by the wounds and burns of years of battle.

‘I think he will,’ says Iasus. ‘Have your company ready.’

Hierax does not know what action to prepare for. There is no way to know whether the Destroyers will be boarding enemy ships or making planetfall. But their force of brutal, ugly annihilation will be called upon.

Hierax is glad of it. Iasus will direct the brutality, and Hierax will take it to the enemy.

Khrossus does not have the ships and he does not have the men to take on the Ultramarines fleet directly. To hurt Guilliman, to accomplish what he must, he has to turn the entire system into a weapon.

He speaks to Darhug and Vûrtaq over the vox as they leave Carchera to take up their positions closer to the Mandeville point. ‘They are not besieging us,’ he says. ‘We are besieging them.’

‘And do you think the Ultramarines will understand the distinction?’ Darhug asks.

‘Does it matter if they do?’ says Vûrtaq.

‘Easy for you to say.’

It is. Of the three prongs of Khrossus’ strategy, Vûrtaq’s is the most aggressive. He is not the one who might feel besieged.

‘It does not matter,’ Khrossus emphasises, ‘but they will think they are the ones besieging. Make good use of that error.’

‘I will,’ says Darhug. ‘Be certain of that, warsmith.’

‘Iron without,’ says Khrossus, ‘and then iron within. That is the shape of our attack. And we will eviscerate the Ultramarines.’

Khrossus has ordered that all signals from Siderius’ communications tower be relayed to his command centre closer to the base of the hive. The tower is too far from where battle will come. Khrossus needs to be at the front lines. The chamber he has chosen is a mere cell, with just enough space for the vox equipment and a table with a map of the Carchera system. He does not need much more. The complexities of the campaign and its planning are in the past. Darhug and Vûrtaq have their orders. He trusts their judgement, and their ability to adapt to the shifting conditions of the struggle. He will do the same in Siderius.

Khrossus leaves the cell and takes a grav lift down to the underhive. He moves down through the endless clamour of the city’s industry. Though the Iron Warriors have conquered Carchera, the gigantic production machine that is Siderius grinds on, only now everything has been turned to the needs of the IV Legion. Huge new trenches are being dug, mine shafts are opening up to become gaping abysses and gigantic reservoirs are filling with molten ore. The millions of citizens of Siderius are governed by a single purpose. They wish to live, and so they slave to fulfil the will of the warsmith.

The grav lift deposits Khrossus beside a cavern where excavators the size of hab blocks dig their immense shovels into the earth, breaking apart tunnels below, working to create a moat hundreds of metres deep.

Past the excavation site, Khrossus enters a tunnel. It bores through rock and is lined with metal plates. It drops down a steep slope, and brings him at last to the chapel of the Word Bearers.

All traces of the chamber’s original purpose are gone. The Word Bearers have had it scraped clean. The walls have been altered, the angles between them deepened and the sides worked until they are perfectly sheer. The cavern now has eight identical sides. The star of Chaos is carved into the floor. Runes have been painted in blood between each of the arms of the star. The shapes of the symbols hurt Khrossus’ eyes, and they writhe in his peripheral vision. Ker Vanthax stands in the centre of the star, surrounded by his acolytes. ‘This is a worthy place,’ the High Chaplain says to Khrossus. ‘There is much blood in the stone. Many died in this spot when the mines were first being dug. Lines of energy pass through here. Lines of Chaos.’ He nods, satisfied. ‘Carchera will fight for us. Have you examined the planet’s historical records?’

‘I have been otherwise occupied.’

‘Of course. Of course. I think they would be instructive. I can feel the blood that was spilled here. Though its citizens may not know it, this world owes allegiance to the gods. It is not a coincidence that the warp is strong in this system. Carchera’s allegiance is why we will be able to do what we must. The hand of fate is at work here.’

‘I have been working harder here than fate,’ says Khrossus.

Ker Vanthax smiles. ‘You are its instrument. The will of Chaos works through you.’

Khrossus grunts, noncommittal.

‘Have you come to tell us it is time?’ Ker Vanthax asks.

‘We cannot know exactly when the Ultramarines will arrive…’

‘…but they are getting close,’ the High Chaplain says. ‘Yes, we can sense that. We can feel their travel through the immaterium.’

‘We should begin,’ says Khrossus. ‘We should prepare our welcome.’

‘So we shall.’ Ker Vanthax nods to his brothers, and they take up positions surrounding him, standing on the points of the star that indicate the cardinal directions. One of the Word Bearers leaves the chamber for a moment and returns with an amphora. It is full of thick, rich blood. The Word Bearer pours it onto the floor, linking all the arms of the star, and daubs the armour of the other apostles. Then he resumes his place in the circle and joins in as the High Chaplain leads the chanting.

Khrossus backs away. The air turns cold, and his breath mists almost as soon as the chanting begins. The eight-pointed star seems to twist. Voices creep in around the edges of Khrossus’ hearing, voices whose mouths are shaped for more than one tongue, tongues shaped to pronounce impossible words.

Khrossus turns and makes his way back up the tunnel. What he has told his captains is true. He does not need to share the full truth of the Word Bearers to see, and believe in, the full effect it can have. Already, he feels ancient power gathering in the chamber and rising up from Carchera, into the void, reaching out to seize the enemies from Ultramar.

Before he heads to the bridge, Guilliman turns the sandglass over again. He watches the grains drop for a few moments. He will not lie to himself, and pretend that the falling grains are marking the time to the Ultramarines’ arrival in the Carchera system. They are marking the time he has to reach Terra, and they are too few, and they are slipping away.

He must pass through this system quickly.

On the bridge, as translation from the empyrean approaches, Guilliman mounts the pulpit. Shutters cover the windows of the Ultimus Mundi, keeping out the madness of the warp. From her navigation cell, where she lies on a bed suspended in a pool of nutrient fluids, Maesa voxes that the critical seconds are approaching. On the bridge, it is the weapons officers who hold the greater part of Guilliman’s attention.

‘Nova cannon ready to fire,’ one calls.

‘Broadsides standing by,’ says another.

The reports come in from the rest of the fleet. Every ship is prepared to open fire on targets they will not see until after the guns have opened up.

‘A salvo over a wide area, with no aim possible,’ Gorod comments. He and Prayto flank Guilliman beside the elevated pulpit.

‘No aim is necessary,’ Guilliman says. ‘We will have the luxury of precision once we have engaged the enemy. Consider this our pre-emptive counter-attack. We know where and when we will be struck, so I will strike first.’

A servitor begins the countdown to translation. Guilliman waits in silence for the fleet to drop out of the warp. He has already given his commands. All the captains know their duty, and every ship is charging to war. Guilliman does not need to give a new order to fire. He has set out his will, and his Legion is about to carry it out.

‘Translation,’ the servitor says, its voice dull, the announcement too flat for the holocaust it signals.

The Ultimus Mundi shakes three times. The first blow is the shock of the return to the materium. The second comes with the deep-throated thrum of the Nova cannon firing and the unleashing of every other gun in a massive choir of destruction.

The battleship shakes for the third time just after the shutters pull back to reveal the Carchera system, and the cataclysm rushes in on the fleet.

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For my father, Eric, with thanks for so very, very much. You brought me worlds, and one of them was science fiction.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2018.
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Cover illustration by Akim Kaliberda.

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* 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.