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Wrath of the Lost – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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One

The Victus’ Reclusiam was hot and dark, shrouded by a silence that was almost complete. The measured throb of plasma drives slithered through the carved granite of the apse. The snapping hiss of smouldering wood wafted from stone fire-bowls and flambeaux, weighing the air with a caustic incense. Black basalt cladded the adamantium bulkheads and carved menhirs framed the nave. Alcoves cut into the standing stones housed Chapter relics in shimmering stasis fields. A moat of volcanic sand staked with silver-steel honour blades divided the apse from the nave and transepts, their deck plates a grim mosaic formed from the plastrons of fallen captains.

To Dumah, it was a shaman’s cave ripped from its primitive hellscape.

The Chaplain, his void-black Mark X Tacticus power armour embossed with fanged skulls rendered in gold and brass, crossed the narrow causeway that bridged the black sand, holding a relic chainsword reverently. Its black housing was sliced by two diagonal crimson stripes, and acid-etched with the names of fallen warriors. That honour roll stretched back to the strife of the Imperium’s early foundation, and its kill tally reputedly exceeded that of several Chapters. It was a weapon, plain and pure, and the Flesh Tearers embraced the fact in its naming, an act of savage honesty Dumah could not help but admire.

They called it Severer.

Dumah carefully placed Severer on the mountings set in its niche, before unclasping the rosarius affixed to his belt and slotting the icon in another aperture. He made one quarter-turn with the icon, hearing the low hum of the stasis field powering to readiness. Dumah’s eyes rested on the twin rows of monomolecular teeth, Severer’s wrathful war-spirit calling to the sacred fury shackled in his own breast. Dumah relished the kinship he felt with the weapon, hands itching to lift it once more. He never felt a similar unity of purpose with the souls of Cawl’s Mars-forged weapons.

He turned the icon after another moment of hesitation, sealing the chainsword in stasis and denying his desire to claim it. It mattered not that he knew the great deeds and valiant deaths of every warrior to wield it since Manakel, a vaunted hero of the IX Legion and a former High Chaplain of the Chapter. Appollus entrusted him with its protection and consecration. The preservation and protection of the Chapter’s history and sacred relics was his calling, the crozius his staff of office. He would have it no other way.

Dumah moved away from Severer, casting his eye over the other artefacts locked in stasis. He admired reforged blades and suits of power armour with honour rolls longer and more illustrious than Severer, their surfaces engraved with Baalite sandscript. There were others Dumah privately considered distasteful – too Cretacian – in their primitivism. Razor-wire coils sported tongues ripped from the skulls of ork battle-chieftains, severed ears of aeldari witches, the scrimshawed bones and corrupted blades of Traitor Legion warlords, and chalices fashioned from the skulls of demagogues and despots taken by the Flesh Tearers during their long history. Some stasis seals were gene-locked and hexagrammically warded by the Chief Librarian, so their taint could never infect another loyal Imperial soul.

Some relics were famous throughout the Sanguinary Brotherhood.

He saw Slayer’s Wrath, the stylised ‘I’ of the Holy Ordos still visible on the bolter’s casing, and its exotic munitions stacked beside it. Sorrow’s Genesis squatted on a block of grey stone three niches from the bolter, the Exsanguinator gauntlet renowned for its ability to restore mortally wounded warriors from death’s embrace, though at terrible cost to their sanity and spiritual sanctity. The Gauntlet of Iron Wrath, black power fist of Chapter Master Korda, rested on a plinth of carved wood. Dumah sensed fury in its spiked ceramite plating, the same ferocity that had helped Korda carry the breach at the Siege of Phaeton, slaying an Iron Warriors’ daemon prince and Dreadnought talon in the same hour.

Only one other artefact called to him as Severer did.

It rested on a black basalt ledge, silent in deactivation. A vellum honour scroll was set beside its haft of meteoric iron, ringed with spiked bands of gold. Its head was fashioned into the shape of a skeletal angel, wings spread wide in a frozen echo of flight. Dispersal studs for its disruptor field were cunningly woven between ribs and dark-iron feathers, the razor-edged wings of its ornate head capable of slicing flesh from bone or shattering power armour. At the angel’s heart, the heraldic device of the Flesh Tearers was rendered in polished silver, a rare Baalite bloodstone set at its centre. A crozius arcanum, it had belonged to a hero and former High Chaplain. Dumah had inked the warrior’s name on the honour scroll himself.

Carnarvon.

Brass censers leaked cleansing vapours onto the sacred metal, oils and unguents set on the ledge beside it ready for him to reconsecrate it to the Chapter’s service. Dumah hefted the maul. It fit his hand as though forged for it. Its balance was perfect, the weight of the layered adamantium and gilded steel in its ornate head countered by a pommel carved to resemble a fanged, skeletal wight. Forgemaster Liscus had done exemplary work in his restoration, ensuring no compromise of lethality for artistry. Had Dumah been granted the High Chaplain’s office, he would have eagerly accepted the weapon and borne it in battle, not left it here to moulder in safety as Appollus had.

The Chaplain lifted a square of cloth from a small wooden box on the ledge, dipping a corner in the first unguent and gently applying it to the maul’s deactivated head. He intoned the First Litany of Reconsecration, dabbing the cloth again, the combination of word and balm purging any lingering impurities left from its exposure to xenos blood and the taint of the warp. The reconsecration rituals would take several hours, with numerous invocations and layers of unguent required to satisfy its venerable war-spirit, and ensure its purity was beyond question before its stasis-interment in the flagship’s Reclusiam.

A secondary access hatch slid open.

Chaplain Kamiel and Judiciar Israfil entered, their black armour partially concealed by robes of supple leather coloured the earthen brown of sun-dried flesh. Israfil’s executioner sword was mag-locked to his back, and Kamiel’s crozius hung from his waist. Both wore their skull-faced helms, the lower half of Israfil’s obscured by a square of brown leather he wore as a mask. They knelt in supplication before statues of Sanguinius and the Emperor erected in the transepts, paying homage to their father and their monarch. When their obeisance was made, they moved towards the chancel.

Dumah’s vox-bead pinged.

‘Cede your reconsecration duties to Kamiel and Israfil.’ Appollus’ normal angry tone was edged by either disgust or disappointment, Dumah was not sure which. ‘Your attendance is required at a council in the personal sanctum of Lord Seth.’

Dumah clutched the crozius tighter, unwilling to surrender it.

‘Lord Appollus, you entrusted this duty to me,’ Dumah said. ‘I have scarce begun the required ministrations for Carnarvon’s crozius. To interrupt the rituals of consecration would greatly dishonour this artefact, an offence incompatible–’

‘I did not ask for excuses, Dumah!’ Appollus snapped. Data screeded onto the Chaplain’s retinal feed. ‘Seth has demanded that you attend the council in his sanctum. That is an order, not a request! Kamiel and Israfil will sanctify my predecessor’s weapon, and any further relics that require the rites. You will depart immediately.’

Dumah reluctantly placed the crozius on the ledge.

‘Yes, High Chaplain.’

He exited the Reclusiam without another word.

The dolorous clang of beaten metal welcomed Dumah to the upper levels of the command spire. The Chaplain exited the lifter, the red lambency of emergency lumens diluting on the osseous white of his skull helm and the silver traceries that charted recent battle-damage in his black ceramite. Sheets of opaque plastek obscured the route to the flagship’s strategium and the personal sanctum of Lord Seth. They billowed on the stale, unfiltered oxygen wheezed into the suffocating heat of the corridor by damaged air-filtration units.

Dumah strode along the corridor, navigating between the plastek sheets and the mobs of thralls in heavy environment suits. Their hearts raced as he drew close, the dull thud of war drums reaching crescendo. He read exhaustion and malnutrition in their greying, sweat-greased skin and the hardened lines of their unremarkable features. They averted their eyes as he passed, tucking their chins to their chests, their focuses locked on the grinding machine tools showering the deck with orange sparks, and the acetylene hiss of arc welders fusing new sheets of plasteel to the bulkheads. The intense whine of metal shearing metal clawed his helm’s auditory receptors and the stench of scorched plasteel filled his nostrils.

Several menials lay where they had collapsed, either killed or rendered unconscious by privation and the extreme heat. Dumah stepped over them as though they were not even there. He did not consider the act malicious, merely expedient. The menials lived brief, meaningless lives ruled by fear, selfishness and pain. That these menials had spent their lives serving the Emperor and Sanguinius earned them his recognition, brief thoughts he would not squander on the teeming trillions he would eventually sell his life to protect.

Dumah sighted the heavy iron doors of Seth’s personal sanctum.

Carved with the sigil of the Chapter and framed by rust-veined scaffolding, the portal was guarded by two Terminators of the honour guard, their ceramite patched by grey repair cement and bonded sections of temporary reinforcement. The scent of old gore clung in the crevices, to the myriad trophies of xenos bone, carnelian chitin and flayed flesh secured to shoulder and thigh by brass chains. The bitter tang of charred ozone clung to the veterans, the air alive with the energies required to power the massive suits of battleplate.

‘I have been summoned to attend a council with Lord Seth.’

The Terminator on his left inclined his helm, a piercing snarl of damaged servos and scraping ceramite. His storm bolter was drawn, its shot-selector switched to automatic fire, his power fist sheathed in crackling disruptive energies. The teeth of its underbite chainblade attachment were broken and chipped, the grey metal stained with age-darkened blood.

‘You are expected, Chaplain Dumah.’

The doors opened and Dumah stepped through.

Seth’s sanctum was simply furnished, with an arming rack and a small workbench set against one wall. An iron chair, sized for an Adeptus Astartes, was set slightly at an angle from it, and there was a small shelf with several sealed jars and old battle-trophies on it. Blood Reaver, the Chapter Master’s infamous two-handed chainblade, rested on the workbench beside teeth tracks and a container stamped with the Technicarum’s insignia. Two sealed hatches led to Seth’s private arming chamber and his ablutions cell. The final fixture, situated in the centre of the chamber, was the hololithic planning table.

Five Flesh Tearers were gathered around it, all looking at him.

‘I see you found time to attend,’ Harahel growled in heavily accented Gothic. His Terminator plate was draped with grisly trophies, numbering far more than those of the warriors he had stationed outside. ‘Did the Butcher not teach you that heeding your Chapter Master’s summons is compulsory?’

Dumah bristled, more offended for himself than Lord Guilliman. He had received the summons from Appollus a mere thirty minutes ago, time he had spent in transit between the Black Tower and the command spire. His eyes found the High Chaplain lurking in the Terminator’s shadow, his body set in an expression of raw, restrained wrath. Anger burned sun-bright, then Dumah snorted, admonishing himself for expecting support from his senior.

He bowed his head in a display of faux contrition.

‘The Butcher taught me much, Harahel,’ he said to the Chapter Champion. ‘Not least that the duties of office are manifold and often keep their occupiers engaged. I do not recall any lectures in etiquette and protocol. Why? Do you seek some for yourself?’

Harahel laughed, a shotcannon’s bark, and gunned his chainfist.

Dumah smiled and reached for his crozius.

‘Enough!’ Gabriel Seth snarled, slamming his fist on the table.

The master of the Flesh Tearers was an immense figure. Scars cut the natural contours of his square-jawed face, his expression rigid with the same restrained fury that bled from his High Chaplain. Seth’s eyes locked with Dumah’s, and the Chaplain felt himself grimace beneath the Cretacian’s gaze, instantly regretting his flippancy. The Chapter Master exuded an aura of elemental aggression that sent a very human chill slithering down Dumah’s spine.

Seth truly embodied the mantle Guardian of Rage.

‘We do not have time for pointless bickering.’ The words rode the predatory snarl that hissed between Seth’s gritted teeth. ‘We must resolve this matter, and quickly. There are wars that require our attention, and tyranid blood yet to be spilled.’

‘My lord, the Fourth Company stands ready for your orders,’ Tanthius said, and Dumah caught the ripple of eager impatience in the captain’s voice, his scuffed and scarred Tacticus plate a visceral narration of wounds sustained in close assault. ‘Upon which battlefield shall these monsters next taste our wrath?’

Seth keyed a number string into the hololith’s data-pad.

The stuttering projection of a planet layered itself onto the table, a sphere of trembling light the colour of clean oceans. Its topography was shrouded in dense clouds and electrical storms. High Gothic script screeded beside it, detailing its classification as an extremis-grade death world, approximate lists of indigenous species, and its stewardship by Adeptus Astartes Chapter 082, claimed by Right of Conquest in M31.

Recognition clenched Dumah’s stomach tight with disgust.

‘Cretacia?’ The second Primaris Space Marine breathed.

Apothecary Barachiel of the Fourth forewent his power armour for simple grey fatigues, ripe with the stench of his daily training regimen. A Terran veteran of the Indomitus Crusade, Barachiel had mentored Dumah, guided him towards his calling as a Chaplain and had saved his life on more than one occasion. The veteran’s close-cropped silver-gold hair and beard framed age-creased skin the colour of cedar, his smile of modest joy flawed by a single scar.

‘Home,’ Harahel smiled.

‘Almost twenty years has passed for Cretacia since we first sailed for Baal,’ Seth said, affection colouring his voice with something like concern. ‘Since Leviathan was defeated, we have received no astropathic hails, and those sent by the Librarians and astropaths of our own fleet continue to go unanswered. This silence cannot persist. It will not persist.’

Dumah fixed Seth with the impassive glare of his red optics. It did not take a genius to determine what Seth had in mind for them. He hated the idea already.

‘My lord,’ Tanthius began, choosing his words with care. ‘The empyrean is wracked with tempests of a kind unseen for millennia. They blind Navigators and fragment astropathic cries as often as swallow entire battlefleets. Our communiqués could have been scattered in the turbulent tides or hampered by the chronometric anomalies unleashed by the Rift.’

‘The captain presents a valid point, lord,’ Dumah said. He did not want to sail for Cretacia any more than Tanthius, though he suspected the captain’s reasons were wildly different to his own. ‘The turmoil unleashed by the Great Rift has dimmed even the light of the Astronomican. If the Emperor’s own might struggles to carry across the storm tides, what hope does any psyker, even the most puissant, have of successfully projecting an astropathic distress call?’

‘It is likely Cretacia endures unharmed, my lord,’ Tanthius continued. Dumah looked at Barachiel, reading frustrated hope in his downcast features. His eyes narrowed, unsure why his brother would want to sail for Cretacia. ‘The Indomitus Crusade secured the core worlds and suppresses heretic and alien encroachment in the Segmentum Pacificus. Should Cretacia cry out for aid, the lord regent’s forces are better positioned to provide succour.’

‘Cowards!’ Appollus’ strident voice was amplified by the vox-casters built into his skull-faced helm. The disruptor field on his crozius sizzled live. ‘You dare dishonour the mark of Amit’s chosen warriors with such a display of weakness? Pathetic!’

Dumah’s teeth ground together, and his twin hearts thundered against his sternum, starving canids incited to frenzy by the promise of meat. He restrained himself from violence, barely. Tanthius did not. The captain roared and drew his blade, thumbing its activation stud. Coruscating arcs of lethal energy rippled along the sword’s reforged length.

Appollus laughed and advanced on him.

Seth scowled and raised his hand. It was the only instruction Harahel needed.

The Champion forced his way between them, the enhanced strength of his Terminator plate throwing Tanthius into a bulkhead. The Primaris captain struck the plasteel with a thunderclap’s force, one hand pressed to his helm as he sought to steady himself. Rage dragged bestial snarls from Appollus’ lips as the High Chaplain pressed queries about the Champion’s loyalty and parentage into the spaces between breaths.

‘This childishness is done,’ Harahel growled.

Tanthius snarled and lowered his weapon, deactivating it. Appollus glanced at Seth, then followed suit with a dry chuckle. Neither had the stomach to fight Harahel. The tension between the three vented like coolant from a ruptured hose.

‘“Chronometric anomalies” aside’ – Seth spat the words back at them – ‘it is still years without a single communication from Cretacia.’

‘What of our oath?’ Tanthius snarled.

Seth’s eyes narrowed.

‘Our oath?’ He seemed genuinely puzzled.

‘We pledged to aid Dante in the purification of the Red Scar. We cannot depart with the war yet unwon. Would you see the Flesh Tearers shamed before the Golden Sons or the Angels Encarmine’ – Dumah caught Seth’s reflexive twitch at the mention of the aloof Second Founding Chapter – ‘for sending warriors away from the war front?’

Seth glared at Tanthius.

‘Our oaths to Cretacia predate any pledge I made to Dante. As for the Golden Sons and Angels Encarmine, I care not what quaint opinions they hold, or what they whisper in their blackest envy. We are Sanguinius’ second sons, our blood most blessed with the sun-bright caress of his holy wrath. I am the Master of the Flesh Tearers, not Dante, nor any preening lord of our lesser cousins. Your vessel is already being prepared and your warriors have been alerted that they are to transfer aboard. My decision is final, captain.’

Tanthius nodded, beaten.

Barachiel’s smile returned.

‘Chancing the crossing from Nihilus to Sanctus is little more than suicide,’ Dumah said. Seth’s underhand moves infuriated him. He would speak his mind and damn the consequences. ‘You would waste the lives of your warriors on a feat based entirely in deluded optimism? That is reckless even for you, Seth. If you are set on sending us to our deaths, then grant us the truth – why this fools’ expedition to Cretacia?’

‘You dare think to stand in judgement over my decisions, Primaris?’ Seth snarled, taking a step forward. Dumah stood his ground. ‘I can smell the mother’s milk still on your breath. Your rank may give you the remit to question me, to test me, but you have not served the Chapter long enough to be a worthy arbiter of my actions, or my soul.’

Dumah wanted to strike Seth, to crush his skull and tear the beating, bloody hearts from his chest. His fangs slid from his gums. Fury stung his blood, even as he calmed himself with slow, steady breaths. It would be little use to sink to Seth’s level. He spoke in a low and measured voice, determined that his words be judged by their logic, not his fury.

‘Cretacia is the birthplace of the muck that soils the honour of our Chapter in the eyes of the Angel and the Emperor. With Dante’s fiat to recruit and tithe materiel from any world we see fit, what possible reason could we have to return to that accursed hellscape?’

Dumah expected Seth to rage, to curse and froth like a madman overtaken by a viral neuro-inflammatory. He imagined the Chapter Master snatching up his eviscerator to cleave him in half, or ordering Harahel and Appollus to tear him apart, a task both looked fully prepared to perform. Muscles tensed like steel cords pressed against Harahel’s neck seals, and the teeth of his chainblade attachments tore the air with a dry, grating hunger. Appollus looked on the verge of apoplexy, shaking inside his black plate. Dumah expected Seth to do many things, but not the one thing he actually did.

Seth laughed.

‘Perhaps the Angel’s wrath does dwell in your kind too.’ Seth’s humour tapered away as suddenly as it appeared. ‘Cretacia may be a worthless world, far from the salvation Amit once promised, but it is home. For me, and for this Chapter. It is the crucible of our fury and our flesh, the world won with the blood, sweat and wrath of our forebears. Not one of the worlds Dante offered us can lay claim to that distinction. If that cost must be exacted again to secure our home and our relics, then it is a price I happily pay.’

Dumah’s hearing snagged on one word.

‘Relics? There are relics on Cretacia?’

Seth nodded.

‘We were forced to leave many honoured artefacts behind when we sailed for Baal,’ Appollus growled. ‘Some even date back to the Chapter’s foundation, including Amit’s own standard and his armour, the Crimson Plate. We had little time and brought only what we could use in battle. They were left in the custodianship of our serfs and a contingent of veteran Astartes.’

‘The Crimson Plate…’ Awe gave way to horror, which gave way to fury. ‘What possessed you to consider those unwashed barbarians fitting custodians for the heirlooms of our Chapter?’ Dumah resisted the urge to spit, so repugnant was the notion.

‘When we sailed for Baal, it was to meet our deaths,’ Seth growled. ‘Not one Flesh Tearer expected to live beyond Leviathan’s assault. We were scarcely two hundred warriors. Bequeathing our legacy to the people of Cretacia was more palatable than seeing it consumed by the tyranids or gathering dust as a hollow memorial in the Blood Angels’ vaults, a monument to a legacy not their own, and one they could never understand.’

Dumah nodded, suppressing the anger stinging his veins. Though the notion of sacred relics left in the grubby, uncultured hands of ill-bred tribal savages was revolting, it was at least an understandable decision, one he may have made himself in their position. He looked to Tanthius and Barachiel, offering them his nod of affirmation.

‘Then the Fourth Company alone will sail for Cretacia, and we shall recover these relics,’ Tanthius said. He paused, before adding: ‘And secure your home world.’

Seth smiled, his taut grin mirthless.

‘I never said I would be sending you alone.’

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2023.
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