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-engineered 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, mutants – 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. THE TRIAL OF GABRIEL SETH, ACT I Gabriel Seth prepared himself for death, and stepped forwards. The Chapter Master of the Flesh Tearers entered the Forum Judicium and took his place at its centre. Shrouded in the depths of Baal, the chamber had remained unchanged from the day it had been carved into the rock. A vast elliptical space, it was reminiscent of the grand amphitheatres of ancient Terra. Towering rows of superimposed arcades formed the bulk of the structure, with each of the arches supported by a pair of Ionic columns. Angled buttresses carved in the likeness of Sanguinius provided further support and served as a reminder that it was his strength, his blood, upon which all undertakings were built. Higher up, held suspended in the space below the ceiling, a golden statue of the Emperor gazed down in silent observation. ‘I have not come here for your judgement.’ Standing beneath each of the arches was a Chapter Master. Each was a son of Sanguinius charged with commanding a Chapter of the Blood. A sea of red armour cast in every shade and hue, some rich like fresh-spilled blood, others ruby or swept through with crimson. Still others were clad in darkened scabs, the colour of scorched blood or the black of the curse. Seth cast his gaze over the assembled Chapter Masters, and found no friends among them. Their jaws were set like iron and their eyes carried the threat of violence. Seth felt a grin tug at the corners of his mouth, amused by the challenge inherent in their damning stares. ‘I am not here for your help.’ He spat the word, his eyes narrowing to slits. Whether any of them would act as a brother and not as a juror remained to be seen. It was a rare and dangerous occurrence for so many Chapter Masters to gather in one location. Yet duty and blood demanded the risk be taken. The Judicium was no simple court. It existed only to arbitrate in the direst of circumstances. In such times the scions of Sanguinius were called upon to lend their voice to the shape of history, to stand and make a choice. More than once Seth had stood with the others, passing sentence on the future. A surge of guilt quickened his heart as he remembered the consequences of such occasions. Some decrees, some judgements when passed, were like the pulling of a trigger. They could not be undone. ‘I have come here in sacrifice alone.’ Seth upturned his eviscerator and planted it in the red rock of the ground. The weapon’s ragged teeth were caked in gore. A ripple of disapproving murmurs echoed around the chamber. Like his blade, death clung to Seth like a badge of honour. His armour was rent and scarred from recent conflict. His cloak was torn and stained by foul ichor. A fresh scar sat atop his brow. Another bisected his left eye. ‘You may damn me. You may swallow up my name in secrecy and remove my deeds from the histories of the Imperium. But–’ He ground his teeth, struggling to force his words through a knot of anger. ‘You will spare my Chapter.’ ‘You are in no position to make demands, Gabriel.’ Dante was the first to answer. There was impatience in his tone but it carried neither threat nor aggression. Seth glared up at the lord of the Blood Angels. There were none who had embraced Sanguinius’s angelic legacy as fully as Dante. Resplendent in his golden armour, its ornate plates polished to a mirror sheen, he stood as a beacon of hope. A noble protector who would rise above the curse. Yet for all his skill as an orator, Seth knew it to be a facade. Of all the Chapter Masters, Dante alone was helmed. A gilded death mask obscured his face, at once cruel and beautiful. Seth released the breath he had been holding, easing the tension from his muscles. He both admired and pitied Dante. To be forced to hide his own rage behind such a mask would have driven Seth mad. That Dante endured it had always been reason enough for Seth to accept the Blood Angel as first among equals. ‘Dante is right.’ Castellan Zargo’s words were barbed with menace. ‘You will account for your deeds.’ The master of the Angels Encarmine thrust a finger at Seth. ‘I will,’ Seth barked, crashing a fist against his chest, his teeth bared. ‘My deeds. I will account for those. And with me it will end.’ His face twisted into a snarl, his lips struggling against the tightness in his jaw. ‘The Flesh Tearers will continue to fight in the name of the Emperor and of Sanguinius. You will do nothing to reprimand them nor bring stain to their honour.’ Seth took a step forward. ‘If you threaten my brothers–’ He advanced another pace, fixing Dante with a murderous stare. ‘If you spill a single drop of their blood in vengeance–’ He paused, wrestling his temper under control. What he had to say would not be dismissed as the idle threat of a madman. ‘I will kill every last one of you before my head leaves my shoulders. I will tear out your eyes and drink your blood dry. Know this. Know it to be true.’ ‘You would threaten us?’ Zargo snarled. ‘Hypocrisy suits you ill, cousin.’ Seth’s quiet rage built in his throat. ‘How dare you–’ ‘How dare I?’ Seth cut Zargo off, a murderous glint returning to his eyes. ‘You have summoned me here in threat of my life. All of you. My brothers. Did you think I would lie down and plead?’ ‘And what of you, brother?’ The voice of Geron, the master of the Angels Numinous, was full of scorn. ‘What boon have you given us? Your actions have forced the attention of the Inquisition upon all of us. They claw at our door like hungry wolves.’ ‘Agreed. You have damned us all with your actions.’ Orloc, lord of the Blood Drinkers, spoke up in support. ‘Arrogance and bloodlust are your only gifts to this brotherhood,’ said Geron. ‘There is one other gift I have for you,’ Seth snarled. ‘Come down here and claim it.’ ‘Enough.’ Dante slammed his hand down on the balustrade, the ancient rock cracking under his gauntlet. ‘You have said your piece, Seth. Now you will listen to what we have to say.’ Dante gestured to Techial. The Chapter Master of the Disciples of Blood approached an ornate lectern that sat just above the amphitheatre’s floor. Techial had been appointed Chronicler. It fell to him to recount Seth’s sins, to detail the actions that had brought the Flesh Tearer to such a juncture. Techial settled behind the lectern and unfurled a length of parchment. ‘Gabriel Seth, you stand before us a broken son, an orphaned brother. Here the lines of blood and loyalty do not flow,’ he read aloud, his voice filling the chamber with a sombre tempo. ‘Here, you will be judged.’ KNOW THYSELF The Victus stretched out below Balthiel like an armoured continent. The Flesh Tearers flagship was a colossal vessel. Teeming with weaponry, it was possessed of a near-impenetrable hull, wrapped in kilometres-thick slabs of ceramite armour. By the Victus’s guns had the populace of a thousand worlds died, its lance batteries boiling away their atmospheres as its seismic torpedoes shattered their tectonic plates. The Librarian stood in the observation tower, his attention fixed on the lone ship edging its way towards the portside docking bay. Its approach heralded more menace than the largest enemy battle group, promising a threat that no salvo could halt. The dagger-shaped craft was smaller even than a single barrel of one of the Victus’s close protection batteries, its void-black hull free of markings and insignia, a ghost ship – invisible save for the glowing, stylised ‘I’ that emblazoned its prow.