Ravenor Returned Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Warhammer 40,000

  Map

  Then

  Now

  PART ONE

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  PART TWO

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  PART THREE

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Soon

  About The Author

  Legal

  eBook license

  Warhammer 40,000

  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 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.

  ‘Words not deeds’

  – Dedication over the main entrance of the Administry Tower, Formal A, Petropolis.

  ‘In the prosecution of his work, an agent of the Holy Inquisition may display a badge of office, which shall be a rosette bearing a crimson sigil. This may be further inscribed with the mark of his affiliated ordo or the code of his issuing officio planetia. It is his symbol of authority, stark and unequivocal.

  ‘Under certain circumstances, an agent of the Holy Inquisition may elect instead to carry the mark of Special Condition, which shall be a rosette bearing an azure sigil. This denotes the bearer to be operating alone, beyond the resource or support of any ordo: rogue, driven to independence by extremis, who will act with singular devotion, and recognise no law or master save the God-Emperor himself.’

  – from the Inquisition’s Rubric of Protocol

  THEN

  Just after Firetide, Bonner’s Reach, Lucky Space, 402.M41

  ‘You.’

  The voice was so low, so very, very deep, the single word resounded like a seismic rumble. A curious hush fell across the vast free trade salon. People began to look. Some picked up their drinks and moved away. They knew what this was.

  The implanted eyes of all the Vigilants present also turned to stare at the confrontation, green and cold. But they would not intervene. Not unless the Code of the Reach was broken.

  ‘You,’ the voice repeated.

  To his credit, the man in the lizard-skin coat had not turned around. He was sitting at one of the high tables, conducting some business with a pair of far traders. The traders both looked up nervously at the figure standing behind the man in the lizard-skin coat.

  ‘I… I think you’re being addressed,’ one of them muttered.

  ‘I’ve no business with anyone here except you two gentlemen,’ the man in the lizard-skin coat said loudly. He picked up one of the napkins on which the traders had just been scribbling cost estimates. ‘Now this figure here seems very high–’

  The far traders pushed back their chairs and stood up. ‘Our business is done,’ one of them said stiffly. ‘We don’t want to get involved in… whatever this is.’

  The man in the lizard-skin coat tutted and got to his feet. ‘Sit down,’ he told the traders. ‘Order another flask of amasec from the tenders on my account. I’ll just deal with this and we can resume.’

  He turned around. Slowly, he lifted his gaze until he was looking up at the face of the man who had interrupted his meeting.

  Lucius Worna had been in the bounty game for fifteen decades, and every second of those savage years showed in his face. His head, shaved apart from a bleached stripe, was one big scar. Livid canyons split through his lips and eyebrows, and formed white ridges on his cheeks and jawline. His ears and nose were just eroded stubs of gristle. The blemish of old wounds overlayed one another, scar tissue upon scar tissue. The carapace armour he wore had been polished until it shone like mother-of-pearl. Even without its plated bulk, he would have been a big man.

  ‘I have a warrant,’ Lucius Worna declared.

  ‘You must be very pleased,’ the man in the lizard-skin coat said.

  ‘For you.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the man in the lizard-skin coat said, and began to turn away again.

  Lucius Worna raised his left paw and displayed the warrant slate. The hololithic image of a man’s head appeared in front of it and gently revolved.

  ‘Armand Wessaen. Two hundred seventy-eight counts, including fraud, malpractice, embezzlement, illegal trading, mutilation and mass murder.’

  The man in the lizard-skin coat pointed one lean, well-manicured finger at the slate’s image. ‘If you think that looks remotely like me, you’re not very good at your job.’

  Behind him, the far traders chuckled. ‘Get on your way, bounty,’ one of them said as his confidence returned. ‘Any fool can see that’s not our friend here.’

  Lucius Worna kept staring at the man in the lizard-skin coat. ‘This face is Wessaen’s birth-face. He has changed it many times, in order to evade the authorities. He escaped death row incarceration on Hesperus and absconded from that planet by smuggling himself offworld a piece at a time.’

  ‘I think you’ve had too much to drink,’ one of the traders laughed.

  ‘I don’t really care what you think,’ replied Worna. ‘I know what I know. Armand Wessaen had himself physically disassembled by a black market surgeon on Hesperus. His component parts – hands, eyes, limbs, organs – were grafted onto couriers, hired mules, who conveyed them off planet. Wessaen himself, wearing a body made up of all the transplants removed from said mules, followed them. He later slaughtered the mules instead of paying them what he’d promised, and harvested his component parts back, reassembling himself. All except… the face. There’s one mule still to find, isn’t there, Wessaen? That’s why you’re trying to arrange passage to Sarum.’

  Worna glanced sideways at the far traders. ‘That’s what’s he�
�s after, isn’t it? Passage to Sarum?’

  The traders looked at each other. One nodded, slowly.

  ‘This really is nonsense,’ the man in the lizard-skin coat smirked. ‘My name is Dryn Degemyni, and I’m a legitimate businessman. Your suggestion is… is little short of farce. I cut myself apart, did I? Posted myself offworld, bit by bit, attached to others, and now I’m sewn back together?’ He laughed. Some onlookers sniggered too.

  ‘Not sewn. Surgically rebonded. A process paid for by the four hundred thousand crowns you embezzled from the Imperial Guard Veterans’ Association on Hesperus while you were acting as their treasurer. They sponsored this bounty, as did the families of the mules you used and killed.’

  ‘You’re just annoying me now,’ said the man in the lizard-skin coat. ‘Go away.’

  Lucius Worna adjusted the setting of the warrant slate. The headshot changed. ‘Just the face left. And this is the face of the mule you used to smuggle your features out.’

  The far traders suddenly began to back away. The hololithic image now plainly showed a perfect match for the face of the man in the lizard-skin coat.

  The man sighed sadly, as if all the air had drained out of him, and bowed his head.

  ‘Armand Wessaen,’ Worna intoned. ‘I have a warrant for your–’

  The man in the lizard-skin coat flicked out his right arm and stabbed the bounty hunter in the face. Lucius Worna recoiled slightly and dropped the warrant slate. The flesh of his right cheek was sliced open to the bone. There was blood everywhere.

  A shocked murmur ran through the onlookers. No one quite understood what had just happened. They’d barely seen the man in the lizard-skin coat move, let alone produce a weapon.

  With a resigned shrug, ignoring the terrible wound, Lucius Worna lunged at his quarry.

  Wessaen darted aside, easily avoiding his big, clumsy opponent. He moved like quicksilver, and as he ducked under Worna’s reaching arms, he lashed out with a sideways kick.

  This should have been as successful as kicking a Baneblade. Wessaen was slender and un-armoured. It seemed insanity for him to try and take on a giant in a suit of powered battle plate in close combat.

  But the kick connected, and Lucius Worna was flung sideways, thrown by a force even his suit’s inertial dampers couldn’t deal with. He crashed into the high table, knocking over the drinks and two of the chairs. Then the man in the lizard-skin coat was on his back, right hand raised to strike at the nape of Worna’s neck.

  Just for an instant, the onlookers glimpsed that hand and understood. It was folded open, like the petals of a flower, hinged apart between the middle and ring fingers. A double-edged blade poked from the aperture. A graft weapon. An implant. The hideously folded fingers seemed to form a hilt for the blade.

  Worna reached around, grabbed the shoulder of the lizard-skin coat, and flung the man over his head.

  The man somersaulted in mid-air, controlled his fall, and bounced feet first off the far end of the high table with enough force to slam the table’s opposite edge up into Worna’s chin. Worna staggered back. Wessaen landed on the salon floor and renewed his attack.

  The onlookers in the free trade salon crowded in closer, astonished by what they were witnessing. Some of them had seen the bounty hunter at work before. You didn’t mess with that, not hand-to-hand, unless you were crazy, or suicidal or–

  Or something else entirely.

  Something laced with grafts and glands and implants. Something so augmetically re-engineered it would take on a monster without hesitation. In any fight, there was an underdog. Despite all physical appearances to the contrary, that underdog was Lucius Worna.

  This was something the crowd wanted a ringside seat to see.

  Worna threw two heavy punches at the man in the lizard-skin coat. Each one would have demolished his skull if it had connected. But Armand Wessaen seemed to slide out around them, leaving empty air. He landed two strikes of his own: his graft blade slit through Worna’s left eyebrow, and his left fist actually dented the mother-of-pearl surface of Worna’s chest plate.

  Worna stumbled away from the force of the blows.

  Wessaen’s left hand produced a cisor from the pocket of the lizard-skin coat. The warmth of his hand woke the large, black beetle-thing up, and its exposed mandibles, razor-sharp, began to chitter and thrash.

  ‘You’ve picked on the wrong man tonight,’ he hissed as he came in again.

  Worna swung around. Again, his punch hit nothing but space. Wessaen had danced nimbly to the left, and stabbed the graft blade up under Worna’s left shoulder guard. He tugged the blade out, escaping the blind retaliation. Now blood was spurting down the bounty hunter’s left bicep guard.

  Worna pivoted at the hips and clawed at his adversary. Wessaen backed away with abnormal speed, executed a deft tumble, and came back on his feet behind his cumbersome opponent. The cisor ripped into Worna’s lumbar plating, the mandibles chewing through it like it was tissue paper.

  Worna pulled away, but no matter how tightly he turned, he was just a thundering hulk in heavy armour, and Wessaen was always behind him, jittery-fast. Wessaen was glanding something potent, and hyperactivity pulsed through his hard-wired, reconstructed body.

  Worna made another desperate grab. Wessaen kicked him in the face, and then followed the kick with another stab of the graft blade. The blade punched through the bounty hunter’s midriff armour.

  Where it stuck fast.

  Wessaen swallowed.

  Worna grabbed the man in the lizard-skin coat by the right wrist and wrenched the graft blade out of his belly. As the cisor chattered in, Worna caught that wrist too.

  Wessaen’s eyes went glassy-wide. Glanding, he was faster than the massive bounty hunter, and almost as strong. Almost.

  Struggling, Worna raised the man’s right wrist until the graft blade was in front of his face. They were locked, quivering with matched fury. Worna slowly leaned his head forward.

  And bit the graft blade in half.

  Wessaen squealed. Lucius Worna laughed, a deep booming laugh, and spat the broken blade out of his mouth. He let go of Wessaen’s right hand and yanked on the other wrist, straightening Wessaen’s left arm as he brought his free fist up under it.

  The left elbow of the man in the lizard-skin coat snapped the wrong way with a bone-crack that made the onlookers wince.

  The cisor fell onto the floor, and began to eat the carpet. Wessaen started to squeal again, but the squeal ended abruptly as Worna’s right hand punched him in the face and sent him flying across the floor.

  ‘End of story,’ said Lucius Worna.

  Oblivious to the blood streaming from his wounds, Worna clanked towards the fallen man. Wessaen lay in a twisted heap, his broken arm limp and dislocated like a snapped twig. He was moaning, blood pattering from his mashed lips.

  ‘I have a warrant,’ Worna boomed, his voice like tectonic plates scraping together.

  Closing his bitten-off graft weapon so that his hand refolded, Wessaen fumbled into his lizard-skin coat and wrapped his fingers around the summoning whistle.

  His last resort.

  It had cost him a fortune, more than all his body enhancements in fact, and he’d not used it before. But he knew what it did. And if there ever was a moment for it, this was it.

  It wasn’t actually a whistle. It was a smooth piece of rock that had been hollowed out by a technology unknown to the Imperium. But blowing through it was the only way a human could activate it.

  Wessaen blew.

  All the onlookers winced. Glasses shattered on the salon tables. The huge bio-lumin tank-lights suspended in clusters from the salon’s high roof flickered. Every forparsi in the chamber fell down, ears bleeding.

  Ten metres from Armand Wessaen, the nature of space-time buckled and popped apart. The surface of the air itself bubbled and began dripping, like the emulsion of an old tintype pict exposed to flame. A seething, iridescent vortex, whisked up from molten, pustular matter, yawned into bei
ng, and the hound stepped out of it.

  Just a skeleton at first, dry-clicking into view. Then, as it came on, organs materialised inside its ribcage, blood systems wrote themselves into being, muscle grew, sinews, flesh. It solidified, clothing its reeking, yellow bones in meat.

  It was hyenid in structure, its forelimbs long, its back sloping off to short hind legs. Its skull was massive, with a pincer jaw and long yellow fangs that could shred anything, even a man in ceramite armour. It stood two metres tall at the hunched shoulders.

  Its eyes were white, the hair on its hunchback a bristly black.

  The eager onlookers now recoiled. The traders and merchants in the salon began to flee in blind panic, along with the tenders. Not just from the sight of the monster, but also from the smell of it. The gross stink of the warp.

  Worna turned to face it, drawing an execution sword from his harness. He knew it would be over fast, just as well as he knew the outcome wouldn’t favour him.

  Wessaen began to laugh, despite his injuries. ‘You picked on the wrong man, you frigger! The wrong man!’

  The vortex faded. Now fully manifest, the hound padded forward, about to spring, intent on the prey it had been summoned to destroy.

  The Vigilants swarmed onto it from all sides, lashing into it with their hand-and-a-half-swords. Blades rained and sliced. The hound coiled and turned, but by then it was already too late. In less than twenty seconds, the Vigilants had hacked it into bloody slabs and shreds.