A WARHAMMER 40,000 NOVEL
DARK APOSTLE
Anthony Reynolds
For my brother, Nick, who always believed I could do it.
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 Emperors 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 Imperial Guard 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.
As Sanguine Orb waxes strong and Pillar of Clamour rises high,
The Peal of Nether shakes,
And Great Wyrms of The Below wreak the earth
With flame and gaseous exhalation.
Roar of Titans will smite the mountains and they shall tumble.
Depths of Onyx shall engulf the lands,
and then exposed shall lay
The Undercroft,
Death and Mastery.
The door shall be opened to he of pure faith
Into Darkness two descend,
Apostate and he who would be,
Into madness and confusion descend,
Restless dead and creatures old,
The Undying One to face.
Master of the cog will come in chains and tattered robes,
To become Enslaved,
To unleash the Orb of Night and Breaking Dawn.
One shall fall, he of lesser faith, he unmarked by godly touch,
His fate to remain, trapped eternal,
And for one to flee with prize in hand,
Gatemaster,
He who bears Lorgar's touch.
PROLOGUE
Marduk, First Acolyte of the Word Bearers Legion, looked up. His noble, deathly pale patrician features, common amongst those imbued with the gene-seed of blessed Lorgar, were twisted in frustration and anger. Braziers burning within the darkness of the icy mausoleum lit his face, the flames mirrored in his eyes.
'I have read the portents. I felt the truth within the blood of the sacrifices on my tongue.'
He rounded on his silent listener, the ancient Warmonger.
'But this vision fills my head, and its meaning is unclear. I have recited the Curses of Amentenoc; I have supplicated the Great Changer with offerings and sacrifice. I have spent endless hours in meditation, opening myself up to the wisdom and majesty of the living Ether. But the meaning remains unclear.
'I am assailed by the dead, long dead, and they claw at my armour with skeletal claws. They scratch deep furrows into my blessed ceramite, but they cannot pierce my consecrated flesh. I begin to recite from the Book of Lorgar, the third book of the Litanies of Vengeance and Hate. 'Smite down the non-believers and the deceived, and they shall know the truth of the words of oblivion.''
Marduk clenched his fist tightly, servo-muscles in his armour whining as his entire body tensed.
'I shatter their bones with my fists. They cannot stand against me. But they are many.'
