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It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of His inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that He may never truly die. Yet even in His deathless state, the Emperor continues His eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-en- gineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech- priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mu- tants – and worse. To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods. With thanks to Lord Militant Nick Kyme, versenginseer Matt Farrer, and, always, Nik Vincent-Abnett for noticing when something’s awry. This book is dedicated to the memory of Rob Leahy, and to everyone who has marched with the Tanith Ghosts since the very beginning. To the high-most God, who is of the throne above, and to whom falls mastery of All Things, the mind, the blood and the tech ever after, we dedicate our service, and trust that, from him, and from the priests who serve at the Eight corners of his throne, we may inherit the knowledge of the Use of Fire, and the Forging of Devices, and the Making of All Things, so that, from the hands of our brotherhood, even to the last regeneration, we shall fashion the Secret Instruments and Weapons that will assure his eminence hereafter and provide for his Eternal Victory. – Dedication scripture common to the lay-tech dynastic orders of Urdesh Forge World; also a recitation found, in variation, in a number of non-aligned, non-Imperial, and xenos cultures in the Sanguinary Worlds ‘In the opening months of 792.M41, the thirty-seventh year of the Sabbat Worlds Cru- sade, Warmaster Macaroth’s prosecution of the Anarch Sek, focusing on the contested forge world of Urdesh, reached a critical pass. The Imperial victory at Ghereppan, led by Saint Sabbat herself, had broken the Archenemy’s main strength and exposed the callow ruthlessness of his intended strategy – to behead the Imperial high command even if it meant sacrificing the precious forge world. Sek’s decapitation strike at Eltath had been repulsed, and many tacticians believed that a tide had turned. The Anarch was spent, and the crusade force, now focused under Macaroth’s chosen Lord Executor, Ibram Gaunt, would deliver the Urdeshi theatre in a matter of months, if not weeks. After that, the Arch- enemy Archon Gaur would be alone. At last, a credible end-point to the crusade seemed within reach. ‘But the war on Urdesh was not done, nor was the Anarch as disarmed as many sup- posed. Then began the bloodiest and most astonishing period of the campaign thus far, a sequence of events that many history texts have reported with the utmost credulity. What- ever the fine truth of it, it is no exaggeration to say that the fate of the entire sector hung in the balance, to be determined by just a handful of the Astra Militarum. Failure at Ur- desh during those few, bleak weeks would end the crusade, wipe out thirty-seven years of Imperial gains in the Sabbat Worlds, and hand the victory to the enemy of mankind…’ – From A History of the Later Imperial Crusades ONE: THE KING OF THE KNIVES Under the watchful glare of mosaic saints, the floor was a lake of blood. The saints were ancient and Imperial, and their names were mostly forgotten. Tesserae were missing in places, making their shapes ill-defined, their features indistinct, their frozen, pious gestures vague. But their eyes remained, weary eyes that had seen long histories pass, with all the blood and loss that histories claim as their price. Still, they seemed appalled. The eyes of some were wide, in astonishment or horror; in oth- ers, they were half-closed in denial. Some looked away entirely, as if it was too much to bear, diverting their gaze to the distance, perhaps to some golden light of promise that might ap- pear on a far horizon and spare them from witnessing more atrocity. The blood was shin-deep. It had been dammed inside the great chamber’s floor by the short flights of ouslite steps that rose to each entry. It was bright, like a glossy red mirror, rippled by the movement in the room, glinting in the torchlight. It had frothed and clotted into curds around the piled bodies. Half-submerged, soaked in blood, they seemed like tumbled island outcrops rising from a red sea, or moulded plastek forms lifting from run-off liquid compos- ite on a manufacturing rack. The hot stink of it was unbearable. The screams were worse. Damogaur Olort oversaw the work, hands behind his back, barking orders to his sonpack. Sons of Sek brought the captives in one by one. Some struggled and fought, shrieking and spitting obscenities. Others came placidly, stunned by the fate that was overwhelming them. Each of the Sons had made more than one visit to the chamber, and their ochre battle gear was dappled with gore. From the very sight of them, any prisoner brought up from the pens knew what awaited them. Even when they fought and cursed, and had to be beaten and dragged, the sight and smell of the chamber silenced them. Some fell mute, as if dazed. Others wept. A few prayed. The chamber was the inner precinct of the Basilica of Kiodrus on Sadimay Island. A holy place. That it had been transmuted into a hell was too much for most of the prisoners to bear. Olort studied the next captive as he was brought in. The man stumbled, splashing through the blood, as though led to a baptismal pool against his will. ‘Da khen tsa,’ Olort said. Hold him. The Sons, big brutes, their faces covered by glowing optic units and the human-hide leather- work that stifled their mouths, obeyed, dragging the man upright. Olort approached, noting the insignia and unit marks of the captive, the torn and filthy state of his uniform. The man flinched as Olort lifted his dog tags to get his name. Kellermane. There was a paper tag pinned to the left breast of the man’s tunic. It read ‘Captured near the Tulkar Batteries,’ in handwritten Sanguinary block-script. Olort saw a tear running from the man’s eye, and wiped it away with his fingertip. The al- most tender gesture left a smudge of blood on the man’s cheek. Kellermane. Artillery officer. Captain. Helixid. ‘Kell-er-mane,’ Olort said, switching to the clumsy language of the foe, of which he had some small measure. ‘An offer. Renounce your god. Assent now, pledge fellowship to He whose voice drowns out all others, and keep your life.’ The captive swallowed hard, but didn’t reply. He stared as if he didn’t understand. Olort tried to look encouraging. He had unclasped his leather mouth guard so that the cap- tives could see and appreciate the honesty of his smile. ‘Cap-tain Kell-er-mane,’ he said. ‘Repudiate, and pledge. Thus, life is yours.’ Kellermane mumbled something. Olort leant in to hear. ‘Join you?’ Kellermane asked in a tiny voice. ‘Yes.’ ‘A-and you won’t kill me?’ Olort looked solemn, and nodded. ‘Th-then I swear,’ stammered the captive. ‘Yes. Please. Yes. I w-will s-serve your An- arch…’ Olort smiled and stepped back, the blood pool swirling around his boots. ‘Vahooth ter tsa,’ said Olort. Bless him. One of the Sons took out his ritual blade, the hooked skzerret of the Sanguinary Worlds, and opened the captive from throat to sternum with one downward slash. The man convulsed, useless noises of dismay and loss coming from his mouth, and collapsed. Arterial spray hit the temple wall and jetted across the faces of disgusted saints. The Sons let the body fall. How simply they fold, Olort thought, when faced with something so brief as death. Where is their trumpeted mettle? He whose voice drowns out all others has no use for cowards. Olort resumed his place, hands behind his back. ‘Kyeth,’ he said. Next. The Sons waded back across the chamber and left. Two more entered, a sirdar and a packson flanking another captive. This one didn’t look promising to Olort. His black hair was matted with blood and dirt, and he evidently carried several minor injuries.

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