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  • GAUNT’S GHOSTS •

  Dan Abnett

  THE FOUNDING

  Book 1: FIRST AND ONLY

  Book 2: GHOSTMAKER

  Book 3: NECROPOLIS

  THE SAINT

  Book 4: HONOUR GUARD

  Book 5: THE GUNS OF TANITH

  Book 6: STRAIGHT SILVER

  Book 7: SABBAT MARTYR

  THE LOST

  Book 8: TRAITOR GENERAL

  Book 9: HIS LAST COMMAND

  Book 10: THE ARMOUR OF CONTEMPT

  Book 11: ONLY IN DEATH

  THE VICTORY: PART 1

  Book 12: BLOOD PACT

  Book 13: SALVATION’S REACH

  Book 14: THE WARMASTER

  More tales from the Sabbat Worlds

  SABBAT CRUSADE

  Edited by Dan Abnett

  SABBAT WORLDS

  Edited by Dan Abnett

  DOUBLE EAGLE

  Dan Abnett

  TITANICUS

  Dan Abnett

  BROTHERS OF THE SNAKE

  Dan Abnett

  Space Marine Battles

  WAR OF THE FANG

  A Space Marine Battles book, containing the novella The Hunt for Magnus and the novel Battle of the Fang

  THE WORLD ENGINE

  An Astral Knights novel

  DAMNOS

  An Ultramarines collection

  DAMOCLES

  Contains the White Scars, Raven Guard and Ultramarines novellas Blood Oath, Broken Sword, Black Leviathan and Hunter’s Snare

  OVERFIEND

  Contains the White Scars, Raven Guard and Salamanders novellas Stormseer, Shadow Captain and Forge Master

  ARMAGEDDON

  Contains the Black Templars novel Helsreach and novella Blood and Fire

  Legends of the Dark Millennium

  ASTRA MILITARUM

  An Astra Militarum collection

  ULTRAMARINES

  An Ultramarines collection

  FARSIGHT

  A Tau Empire novella

  SONS OF CORAX

  A Raven Guard collection

  SPACE WOLVES

  A Space Wolves collection

  Visit blacklibrary.com for the full range of novels, novellas, audio dramas and Quick Reads, along with many other exclusive products

  Contents

  Cover

  Backlist

  Title Page

  Warhammer 40,000

  One: The King of the Knives

  Two: Other Business

  Three: The Effects of the Dead

  Four: Vapourial Quarter

  Five: Leaving Sadimay

  Six: Protection

  Seven: Arrivals

  Eight: Deployment

  Nine: Bad Shadow

  Ten: Woe

  Eleven: Contact

  Twelve: Qimurah

  Thirteen: Up Into the Light

  Fourteen: Truth and Other Lies

  Fifteen: Into Fire

  Sixteen: Close Quarters

  Seventeen: Flesh is Weak

  Eighteen: In the Slow Hours

  Nineteen: Whose Voice Drowns Out All Others

  Twenty: Blood for Blood

  Twenty-One: Many, Many are the Dead

  Twenty-Two: The Victory

  Epilogues: One Week Later

  About the Author

  An Extract from ‘Dark Imperium: Plague War’

  A Black Library Publication

  eBook license

  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.

  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 Crusade, 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 Archenemy 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 supposed. 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. Whatever 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 Urdesh 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 Imp
erial 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 others, 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 appear 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 composite 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 leatherwork 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 almost 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 captives 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 Anarch…’

  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. But at least he walked unaided. The Sons didn’t have to drag him or frog-march him.

  Olort approached, noting how the prisoner refused to make eye contact. There were no rank pins or regimental patches on the man’s torn black fatigues, and the paper label was missing.

  Olort glanced at the sirdar.

  ‘Khin voi trafa?’ Where is his label?

  The sirdar shrugged apologetically.

  ‘Let’he het?’ Olort asked. Circumstances?

  ‘Tyeh tor Tulkar, damogaur magir,’ the sirdar replied, and continued to explain that the captive had been taken alive after fierce fighting in the boat-docks near the Batteries. He had fought, the sirdar said, like a cornered ursid.

  Interesting after all, thought Olort. A man of courage. He reached for the captive’s dog-tags. The captive did not flinch.

  Mkoll. Recon. Sergeant. Tanith First.

  ‘Mah-koll,’ Olort said, in the foe’s ugly tongue again. ‘An offer. I make this now. Renounce your god. Pledge fellowship to He whose voice drowns out all others, and keep your life.’

  The captive did not reply.

  ‘Repudiate and pledge,’ said Olort. ‘Do you understand?’

  The captive remained silent.

  Olort considered things for a moment. The man was evidently strong. He had borne a great deal. He had not broken. This was the mettle that the Sons watched for. He whose voice drowns out all others had no place for cowards.

  But some could be too brave. This man stank of a silent defiance that would not submit and could not be broken. That was the way of things. Most were too weak. Some were too strong.

  Olort glanced at the sirdar, who already knew what was coming and was unfastening his skzerret.

  ‘Vahooth ter tsa,’ Olort instructed.

  The blade flashed up. Olort abruptly stopped the sirdar’s hand.

  He had noticed something.

  The captive had an insignia pin after all. A small dark badge fixed to his torn collar. It had been blackened to dull its gleam, which is why Olort hadn’t spotted it at first.

  He unfixed it. A skull, with a straight dagger placed vertically behind it.

  ‘Mortekoi,’ he said. Ghost.

  ‘Magir?’ the sirdar asked, blade poised.

  ‘Ger shet khet artar, Sek enkaya sar vahakan,’ said Olort. This is one of the special ones, the ones He whose voice drowns out all others has told us will lead the way to the Victory.

  Olort looked at the pin again, then slipped it into his tunic pocket.

  ‘Voi het tasporoi dar,’ he ordered. Make him ready for transport.

  The sirdar nodded and sheathed his blade.

  Olort looked at the captive.

  ‘Mah-koll,’ he said, with a soft smile. ‘Ver voi… you are a ghost, kha? A ghost? Mortekoi, kha?’

  The captive looked directly at him.

  ‘Nen mortekoi,’
he said. ‘Ger tar Mortek.’

  Olort jerked backwards. The sirdar and the Son started in surprise, and looked at the damogaur, bewildered. The Imperial had just used their language fluently. I am no ghost. I am death.

  Mkoll lashed out with his right hand. The brass hook-pin that had once fastened his missing label had been straightened and concealed in his palm. He punched it into the packson’s neck just below the ear.

  The Son reeled away, yelping and clawing at his neck. Mkoll was already turning on the sirdar. He grabbed the sirdar’s right wrist, snapped his arm straight, and twisted, forcing the officer over in a helpless, painful stoop. Mkoll brought his knee up into the officer’s bowed face.

  The sirdar dropped to his knees, lifting a spray of blood. Mkoll maintained the arm lock, reached over the officer’s hunched back, and yanked out his skzerret.

  He pivoted, locking the arm in a tighter twist with his left hand, meeting the charging Son with his right. The packson still had the pin jutting out of his neck. The ritual blade sliced through the Son’s throat. He staggered backwards, blood jetting between his clamping hands, and fell sideways, lifting waves that churned the surface of the blood pool.

  Olort lunged at Mkoll. Mkoll kicked him in the gut and folded him up. Everything was slick and sticky with blood. The kneeling sirdar managed to wrench his wrist out of the armlock.

  He tried to tackle Mkoll. Mkoll blocked him with a forearm, grabbed him just below the left elbow, and forced him to turn with another twist. The sirdar barked in pain. He was rotated. Mkoll forced the trapped left arm up like the lever of a pump, and punched the skzerret hilt-deep in the sirdar’s armpit.

  Mkoll wrenched the blade out, and the sirdar dropped on his face in a violent splash. Olort was trying to back up, trying to rise, trying to breathe. He floundered in the blood pool.

  He pulled out his sidearm, but Mkoll kicked it away. Mkoll grabbed him by the front of his soaked tunic, dragged him to his feet and slammed him back against the mosaic wall. He put the skzerret to the damogaur’s throat.

  The saints watched, eyes wide.

  No one was coming. The Sons in the anteroom outside were used to cries of pain and dismay echoing from the chamber.