Contents

Cover

The Wraithbone Phoenix – Extract

A Black Library Imprint

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Chapter One

Dinner

+ + + Outgoing Transmission + + +

> VIIX-*****-M41

> Sword-class Imperial frigate Sunstriker

> Captain Augustus Ludovico commanding

> Xenos ship destroyed

> Asset recovered

> Resuming patrol

+ + + Transmission Ends + + +

The ratling held his breath, peering down into the gloomy passage below. The servant placed the dessert tray upon the altar of service with a gentle clatter. The light of the servo-candles glittered upon the captain’s decanter. Knowing the man’s palate, that decanter likely contained a measure of Cyranian amasec, which the captain had been keeping to one side in the officers’ vinarae. The ratling watched as the servant rang the little bell beside the shuttered service portal then made the sign of the aquila as he retreated, head bowed. The shutters opened quietly a moment later, and a pair of hands wearing soft grey gloves took the tray and lowered the shutters back down.

Herbo Prongfork listened to the rumble of the void-engines for a moment or two, then climbed down from between the iron cornucopia that trailed around the rafters of the provisioners’ passage. Dessert had just been served. There shouldn’t be any more servants through here for a while now. Herbo marvelled at the feel of the thick carpet under his big, bare feet. He lifted himself on tiptoe, leaning over the altar of service as he peered through the gap at the bottom of the shutter.

He saw the captain straight away, seated and encased in gleaming livery. Captain Augustus Ludovico alive and laughing and handsome as a summer’s day. Thank the Throne. Word had reached the culina that he’d been wounded by a salvo that hit the command fortress, horribly burned rescuing one of his officers from the wreckage. Herbo had arrived just in time to see the captain finishing his poached carrofruit with gello-crumb garnish, a Prongfork family recipe perfected by his great-great-grandling Looma Prongfork.

He watched Captain Ludovico take another spoonful, savouring its sweetness. Herbo kissed the Prongfork sigil embroidered onto the breast of his apron, a garment handed down by Grandling Looma herself. He felt breathless and light-headed, gazing into the darkened passage behind him. He would face worse than a disciplinary if he was caught spying on the captain. He worked a finger under the shutter, trying to get a better view of the chamber beyond.

The captain’s private wardroom was nothing like the officers’ mess. The captain sat with his back to a waterfall of crimson drapes, open to a disc of patterned glassaic, through which Herbo could make out a vast shadow cruising alongside. Their fellow escort frigate, the Dawnspear, and somewhere nearby would be the Herald of Truth, the venerable cruiser they were charged with protecting.

There were uniformed musicians up on a balcony, faces dreamy as they played a delicate melody. And there was Karris, the new Master of Service. A good, keen lad, Karris. Though nerves still made him prone to the odd mistake. He’d get the hang of it all soon enough, Throne willing. His uniformed retainers stood to attention beneath ancient weapons that criss-crossed every wall. And there was the head of something huge and horrible mounted above the captain. It was all bristles and fangs, its frozen snarl bearing down on the four diners seated at the table below.

A silver-haired woman sat beside the captain, her back to Herbo. She was a commander, by the look of her epaulettes. Opposite was a much younger man, a lieutenant, half strangled by his high-necked collar. Herbo could hear their cogs of service clinking as they dined. The oldest of the three guests sat nearest the captain. This fella wore an ivory-coloured dinner jacket festooned with blood-red tassels, probably the chief sawbones or something like that. He appeared to be in the middle of a lengthy anecdote.

‘Of course, once I informed him about my years served in the Gothic War, the little upstart soon piped down.’ The chief medicae chuckled to himself as Captain Ludovico finished his dessert and shook his head in wonder.

‘Remarkable,’ the captain said. ‘Perfection.’

Herbo clapped his hand over his mouth, frightened for a moment that the servants might have heard him gasp.

The chief medicae spoke before the others, his story forgotten. ‘My verdict also, my captain. A worthy victory dinner, indeed.’

‘I don’t think I’ve tasted anything quite like it,’ the silver-haired commander said.

‘Truly, I am honoured by the invitation to your table, my captain,’ the young lieutenant said.

The captain nodded for amasec to be poured. ‘And I by your efforts, lieutenant. I have already sent word of your valour to the Herald of Truth. I explained that the boarding would have been wholly unsuccessful without you.’ The captain raised his goblet, turning that ravenous smile upon each of his guests. ‘I am told the vice admiral is pleased to have been assigned so capable an escort.’ He turned in his throne and raised his glass to the porthole. ‘I hear that our dear old friend Captain Serravorn is really rather jealous of our endeavours.’

The guests laughed in unison and Herbo blushed to hear so scandalous a jest. Karris ventured forward to clear the plates.

The captain asked him, ‘How long have you been Master of Service now, my lad?’

‘I was promoted two Terran months ago as of yesterday, my captain.’

‘And already you have outdone yourself. I asked to be served by the best cook aboard my ship, and you have delivered one of the best meals I have eaten in all my voidborne years. Throne’s blessing upon you and your choice of master provisioner.’

Herbo’s cheeks prickled. Such praise felt indecent. Guilt overwhelmed him, and he went to withdraw down the passage when someone asked, ‘What then of this treasure we’ve acquired?’

Herbo peered back inside. It was the old medicae who spoke. ‘It sounds fascinating,’ he said, then added hastily, ‘In a purely theoretical sense, of course.’

Herbo had overseen the provisioning of the handful of Auxilla troops who had made it back from the boarding raid on the xenos ship. Ladling broth for a ratling scout with a bandage over one eye, he had heard her grumbling to a comrade about some high-value asset recovered by the Guard. ‘Spent a fair few of us covering their backsides,’ she had said. ‘Bloody hope it was worth it.’

‘One of my midshipmen says he saw it when it was brought on board,’ the lieutenant said. ‘He told me the Guard caught the xenos performing some dreadful rite of worship over the thing. The creatures fought like savages to protect it. What might be its value, do you think?’

‘I don’t believe the xenos cultivate wealth as we do,’ the medicae said. ‘Not in any civilised sense. What did your man say it was exactly?’

‘Some kind of bird,’ the lieutenant said.

‘I heard the same,’ the commander said. ‘A carving of something hatching from an egg, wreathed in flames. Some vile xenos heresy.’

‘A phoenix.’ The captain harboured a boyish smile, watching the play of the candlelight on his jewelled goblet. ‘A creature out of the forgotten myths of Terra, appropriated by the xenos as a spiritual totem.’

The commander muttered, ‘Heresy.’

‘Indeed.’ The captain placed his goblet and leaned forward. ‘But must we not strive to understand what drives these creatures? Appraisal of their culture, such as it is, reveals vital weaknesses.’

‘You’ve seen it then, my captain?’ the medicae said. ‘The artefact. Is it an heirloom of some kind? A totem, you said. What then is its purpose?’

The captain smacked the table with both hands and laughed. ‘My friends, I can contain myself no longer. It’s time you witnessed the spoils of our valiant crusade.’ He motioned to a fearsome-looking sentry, who moved to an alcove and retrieved something draped in dark velvet.

The commander almost started from her chair. ‘My captain! Really?’

The captain ignored her, still smiling as he stood, so grand in his uniform, to receive the veiled object from the sentry.

The medicae’s voice was grave. ‘My captain, I am duty-bound to point out that this is no mere bauble. Are you quite sure it is safe to toy with such a thing?’

Herbo flinched as the captain whipped away the cloth, revealing a polished wooden case, large enough to contain something the size of a skull.

The captain said, ‘I take it you recognise a null-casket when you see one, old friend.’

The box was covered with carvings and inlaid with metal glyphs. But the harder Herbo tried to make out any detail, the more his vision seemed to blur, like the box was trying to shift out of sight and avoid his gaze.

The captain told the medicae, ‘I know you think me cavalier, but do you truly believe I would endanger the lives of my officers?’ He tossed the box to the lieutenant, the lad startled as he caught it. He turned it over in his hands, revealing a small window. He stared at the artefact within.

‘What is it made of, my captain? Looks like ivory.’

‘Bone,’ the captain said.

‘Yet I see no grain. It’s entirely smooth, more like moulded clay.’

‘Moulded, aye.’ The captain grinned, enjoying himself. ‘But not by hand.’

‘And these eyes,’ the lieutenant said. ‘It’s as if the thing were alive.’

The silver-haired commander frowned. The medicae turned away. The captain looked disappointed in them both. He eventually took back the casket and returned it to the sentry’s care. No one spoke as the servants brought grox-cheese and carb-tack.

‘Rest assured, my lord medicae.’ The captain’s voice was low. ‘The artefact shall be delivered unto the Ordo Xenos as soon as possible. Until then it shall remain under guard in our Chamber of Spoils.’

‘Does the artefact have a name?’ the lieutenant said.

‘Our reliquarists have dubbed it “the Wraithbone Phoenix”,’ the captain said.

Herbo shrank back, wishing he could forget everything he had just heard, every awful word of it. He wanted to be back in his culina right now, swaddled in steam and the smell of boiled protein mash.

Herbo hurried back through the maze of cooling pipes, head down, moving quick and quiet, clutching the corners of his apron to prevent them getting dirty. ‘Perfection.’ Best meal he’d ever tasted. The captain’s own words. Then such awful talk of xenos and their knick-knacks. Herbo cursed himself for listening to any of it. This is what came of spying on your betters, overhearing the kind of thing best left to the humes. Captain Ludovico knew best how to keep the likes of Herbo Prongfork good and safe.

Herbo clambered down another pipe, then turned left down yet another, then right into the main cable channel that would take you all the way behind the walls of the Observation Dome if you ever felt the need. If the bosun caught you trespassing on the ‘rat roads’ – as he and his people called this maze of pipes and channels that infested the ship – then you’d be in for a lashing that would have you wishing he’d shot you instead.

Herbo beseeched the Throne for forgiveness as he vaulted over a bundle of conduits. It was bad enough that he had taken to using the undermarket like every other rat in the Auxilla. But what choice did he have? Proper nourishment required proper ingredients. Ratlings couldn’t survive on packets of corpse-starch. They needed clean water, carb-wafers that weren’t riddled with weevils. And wasn’t the master pro-
visioner the first person a ratling came to when they needed proper meds?

The swivel-eyed fixers who supplied Herbo with illicit goods always assured him the humes’ supply vaults were stacked to the rafters with provisions. They wouldn’t miss a crate or six. Herbo knew the fixers were just trying to ease his conscience. But he knew full well the Guard had nothing to spare for the Auxilla. The Militarum quartermaster had told Herbo himself.

Herbo heard someone call his name. He waited for the footsteps to pass overhead, then slipped up through a grate and strolled into view, hoping he didn’t appear too breathless. Whether the servant noticed or not, she didn’t care. She had urgent news to impart.

‘The captain wishes to bestow his blessing?’ Herbo said. ‘Upon me?’

Herbo stood outside the door to the captain’s wardroom, waiting for Karris to announce him. He smoothed his apron, wishing he’d had time to launder it. He kissed the embroidered fork at his breast. Throne, but if Grandling Looma could see him now.

The door opened and servants ushered him inside next to Karris. Herbo’s legs felt limp as boiled starch-rashers. He wished he’d had time for a nip of drink to keep him steady. And there he stood at the head of the table: Captain Augustus Ludovico, just like the portraits that hung about the ship, and twice as grand now Herbo was looking at him up close.

The captain had his goblet raised in readiness, though his smile seemed to have faltered for some reason. His guests had also been standing in welcome. The commander had a napkin clutched to her mouth. The young lieutenant looked as if he could barely restrain himself from fleeing the chamber and emptying his guts. Herbo’s mind raced. Had the carrofruit gone bad? Maybe the spices he’d obtained from his fixer had been cut with something. Throne of Terra, had he poisoned them?

Herbo yelped in fright as the medicae hurled his goblet at Karris. ‘You dare?’

Karris stood as bewildered as Herbo, while the captain calmed his outraged guest.

What in the Throne’s name had the lad done? Whatever it was, only now did Karris seem to be realising his mistake. He kept glancing down at Herbo, breaking into sobs as he tried to explain.

‘You asked for the very best provisioner aboard ship, my captain. The ship’s master gave this one special dispensation to work in the officers’ culina. Said his skills would be wasted upon the lower ranks.’

The chief medicae would not be restrained. ‘That means it’s fit to feed the petty officers, not your captain, boy! By the Throne, I ought to kill you where you stand!’

Captain Ludovico had moved out from behind the table, graceful as an angel. Herbo couldn’t believe the man stood before him now, gazing down at him, smiling and serene.

‘Master ratling.’ The captain spoke softly. ‘Was it you who prepared our meals?’

Herbo felt himself tugging at his apron. ‘Was there something wrong with it, my captain? I peeled the ur-root myself, kneaded the dough for the dumplings with my own hands.’

The commander groaned, and a look of revulsion slithered across the captain’s face. He composed himself and spoke again. ‘And who commissioned you to prepare this repast?’

Karris was staring down at Herbo, his eyes quivering pools of terror.

‘What’s happening?’ Herbo said as the captain drew his pistol. The musicians played on, tranquil as the gunshot rang about the chamber.

Herbo stared down at Karris. The Master of Service had dropped to the floor, jet after dark jet springing from a hole in his chest.

‘What’s happening?’ Herbo said again.

The captain took Herbo’s chin gently. There was no malice in the man’s eyes, only sorrow.

‘The Master of Service was a child of mankind,’ he said. ‘Born with intelligence enough to understand the creed.’

‘What did I do?’ Herbo said.

The captain smiled, his eyes full of pity. ‘Nothing, little one. You cannot be blamed for what you are.’ He saw the fork embroidered over Herbo’s heart, brushed it with his thumb. He looked amused.

Herbo felt a startling urge to smack the captain’s hand away, felt a strange pull under his ribs, something that told him he was being spoken to as though he were a pup. Yet he was no pup. He was Herbo Prongfork, master provisioner of over thirty years’ Imperial service, great-great-grandling of the mighty Looma Prongfork.

‘Your commissar has taught you the litanies?’ the captain said.

Herbo mumbled the first verse before he realised what he was doing. ‘I am abhorred. I am unclean. And yet I am forgiven.’

He felt that funny little pull in his chest once again, like a meathook tugging at his heart. The toes of his right foot were squirming in the dark warmth that crept from Karris’ body.

Herbo went to continue the litany, but his voice trailed off.

‘No tears, little one,’ the captain said. ‘Nothing you may be, yet still you are blessed with sacred purpose… to provision the Imperium of Man. Though loathsome, you are redeemed.’

He paused, awaiting his guests’ applause.

‘Well said, my captain,’ the lieutenant said.

The commander nodded as best she could, clutching her stomach.

‘Your restraint is beyond measure, my captain,’ the medicae said.

The captain nodded his thanks. The servants were skirting Karris’ body as they cleared the table, stiff and expressionless. Herbo heard the medicae speak discreetly as the captain and his guests departed. ‘My captain, I can provide you with a most excellent emetic.’

The captain paused. He told one of the sentries to take the ratling to the bosun and have its forehead branded with the Seal of Penitence.

Feeling the sentry take his arm, Herbo watched the captain leave.

The fucker didn’t so much as glance back at him.

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