Eisenhorn Omnibus Read online

  Eisenhorn Omnibus

  Dan Abnett

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  A WARHAMMER 40,000 OMNIBUS

  EISENHORN

  DAN ABNETT

  A Black Library Publication

  Xenos and Malleus copyright © 2001, Games Workshop Ltd.

  Hereticus copyright © 2002, Games Workshop Ltd.

  Missing in Action first published in Inferno! magazine,

  copyright © 2001, Games Workshop Ltd. Backcloth for a Crown Additional

  first published in Inferno! magazine, copyright ® 2002, Games Workshop Ltd.

  This omnibus edition published in Great Britain in 2004 by

  BL Publishing,

  Games Workshop Ltd.,

  Willow Road , Nottingham ,

  NG7 2WS, UK .

  10 98765432

  Cover illustration by Clint Langley, based on original artwork by Adrian Smith.

  Black Library, the Black Library logo, Black Flame, BL Publishing, Games Workshop, the

  Games Workshop logo and all associated marks, names, characters, illustrations and

  images from the Warhammer 40,000 universe are either ®, TM and/or © Games Workshop

  Ltd 2000-2004, variably registered in the UK and other countries around the world. All

  rights reserved.

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN13: 978 1 84416 156 0 ISBN10: 1 84416 156 0

  Distributed in the US by Simon & Schuster 1230 Avenue of the Americas , New York , NY 10020 , US .

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Bookmarque, Surrey , UK .

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or

  otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  See the Black Library on the Internet at

  www.blacklibrary.com

  Find out more about Games Workshop and the world of Warhammer 40,000 at

  www.games-workshop.com

  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.

  Contents

  Introduction 8

  Xenos 11

  Missing in Action 249

  Malleus 269

  Backcloth for a Crown Additional 511

  Hereticus 531

  Introduction

  Once, when asked where he got his ideas, David Mamet replied, 'I think of them'. In a similar vein, when asked where she got her energy from, my daughter Lily answered, 4Voolworths.' Ba-dum tish!

  Rather less quick-witted than either of them, I regularly struggle when I get asked about ideas and their origins, and usually come up with some old cobblers about 'sometimes, if I'm on a train, things just occur to me…' or 'you never know when an idea's going to hit you…'

  Because you don't. Owning, as I do, a mind as reliable and watertight as the average game of Ker-Plunk!, I have learned to become something of a note-taker. I jot stuff down, anything, everything, as it occurs to me – yes, on trains, or planes, or sofas, or seesaws, or the queue at Tesco – so I don't lose it. I use notebooks, old envelopes, Post-its, the backs of shopping lists, the foreheads of passing children, whatever's to hand. Then, when I actually need an idea, professionally speaking, I rifle through this scrap-head resource and eventually come up with something that makes me go 'Oh, yeah, that'd work.' Except, of course, for the occasions when I find something that makes me go, 'What is that? A "B"? What's that word? Did I write this?'

  So I'm delighted to be able to say that in the case of Eisenhorn (which is the umbrella title we've given to the cycle of novels and linked short stories collected in this spiffy volume), I know exactly where the idea came from. Not me, that's where.

  There is a rather gorgeous painting that many of you, I'm sure, will be familiar with. It's called Inquisitor Tannenberg, it's by John Blanche, and it has been reproduced in various places, including the Incjuis Extermi-natus. Know the one? Guy with a scalp full of cables, a black fur coat, a

  double-headed eagle familiar on his shoulder, a gold-chased bolt pistol in his hand? Yes, it's is good, isn't it?

  I'd been working for the Black Library for a few years, producing a variety of things, most notably the Gaunt's Ghosts novels. So the grim nightmare of the far future, where there is only war and the galaxy's alight and everyone's got a headache, was pretty much my thing. The editors kept me fed with all the latest fluff and hot new supplements, just to keep me in the loop. And one day, they sent me this pile of photocopies: sketches, paste-ups, notes. There was going to be, they told me, a new game called Inquisitor, and they were so jazzed by the concepts and ideas coming out of the game's development, they decided to send me
all the stuff, hush-hush, in the hope that it might inspire me, Gaunt-wise.

  As soon as I opened the package and started leafing through, I could see what they meant. This was a rich seam indeed, full of wonderful baroque material. Among the pages, along with a number of other very fine pictures, was a copy of John Blanche's painting. And that was it. I picked up the phone, called Black Library and said, 'Can I please write about this?' Even though, truth be told, at that stage I didn't know exactly what 'this' was.

  They said yes (I think they sensed the enthusiasm in my voice). The idea was that if I could write the novel quickly enough, it could come out AT THE SAME TIME as the game launch, and everyone would look big and clever, like it had been planned that way all along.

  I visited the Studio, and got great help and advice from the game developers, particularly Gav Thorpe. Then I got to work.

  I think what inspired me about John's painting was the aristocratic clothing: the rich black velvet of the sleeves, the engraved gold of the elegant weapon. This wasn't about the battlefield, the front-line of mud and gas and behemoth engines. This was a glimpse behind the lines at the internal complexity of the Imperium. It offered a chance to explore what might be called the 'domestic' side of the Warhammer 40,000 universe: the daily, non-military, life – at work, at worship, at rest, at court, at slum-level. A chance to visit worlds that were not levelled by war, and see how the billions of Imperial citizens lived.

  And also to find out what evils stalked them, even in the shadows of their own hive cities.

  The novel turned into a trilogy that charts the career of a man. Other stories, two of which are collected here, lace into that trilogy and, for those who are interested, the exploits of several of these characters continue in the Ravenor novels that are my current concern.

  John Blanche's images have always had such a profound influence on the growth of the Warhammer 40,000 universe's unique flavour, I'm proud to acknowledge that painting as the inspirational source of Eisen-horn. Everywhere you look, his spiky, gothic, ornate visions inform the game, and I'd like to think you can find a hint of them permeating this collection. So, individual dedications notwithstanding, this collected volume is respectfully dedicated to Mr John Blanche.

  Of course, if I ever work out whose idea it was to write these stories in the first person, I'll be round their house with a baseball bat. The plot problems that caused…

  Oh, hang on. That was me.

  Dan Abnett

  Maidstone , 9th August, 2004

  XENOS

  For John Parsons, bonemagos.

  BY ORDER OF HIS MOST HOLY MAJESTY THE GOD-EMPEROR OF TERRA

  SEQUESTERED INQUISITORIAL DOSSIERS AUTHORISED PERSONS ONLY

  CASE FILE ii2:67B:AA6:Xad

  Please enter your authority code >

  Validating…

  Thank you, Inquisitor. You may proceed.

  VERBAL TRANSCRIPT OF PICT-RECORDED DOCUMENT

  LOCATION: MAGINOR DATE: 239. M41

  RECOVERED FROM SERVITOR RECORDING MODULE

  TRANSCRIBED BY SAVANT ELEDIX, ORDO HERETICUS

  INQUISITORIAL DATA-LIBRARY FACULTY,

  FIBOS SECUNDUS, 240. M41

  note 1 Darkness. Sounds of distant human pain. A flash of light note 2. Sounds of running.

  Pict-source moves, tracking, vibrating. Some stone walls, in close focus. Another flash, brighter, closer. Squeal of pain note 3. An extremely bright flash note 4.

  note 5

  A man note 6 in long robes, calls out as he strides past close to the pict-source note 7. Surroundings, dark stone note 8. (i)'s identity unknown note 9. Pict-source moves in close behind (i), observing as (i) draws a force hammer from a thigh loop under his robe. Close up on (i)'s hands as he grips haft. Inquisitorial signet ring in plain view, (i) turns note 10, (i) speaks.

  VOICE (i): Move in! Move in, in the name of all that's holy! Come on andnote 11bastard monster to death!

  Further flashes of light, now clearly close las-impacts. Pict-source filters fail to block glare note 12.

  note 13 Passing in through the high stone entrance of some considerable chamber. Grey stone, rough hewn. Pict-source pans. Bodies in doorway, and also slumped down interior steps. Massive injuries, mangled. Stones wet with blood.

  VOICE OFF |(i)?[: Where are you? Where are you? Show yourself!

  Pict-source moves in. Two human shapes move past it to left, blurred note 14 to be male, approx 40 years, heavy-set, wearing Imperial Guard-issue body plate note 15, significant facial scarring note 16, wielding belt-fed heavy stubber; other

  note 17 is female, approx 25 years, svelte, skin dyed blue, tattoos and body-glove armour of a Morituri Death Cultist initiate, wielding force blade note 18.

  Blurred shapes (ii) and (iii) move beyond pict-source. Pict-source pans round, establishing sidelong view of (ii) and (iii) engaged in rapid hand-to-hand warfare with adversaries on lower steps. Adversaries are heterogeneous mix: six humans with surgical/bionic implants, two mutants, three offensive servitors note 19, (ii) fires heavy stubber note 20.

  Two human adversaries pulped note 21, (iii) severs head of mutant, vaults backwards note 22 and impales human adversary. Pict-source moves down note 23.

  VOICE OFF: Maneesha! To the left! To the l-

  Pict-source makes partial capture as (iii) is hit repeatedly by energy fire, (iii) convulses, explodes. Pict-source hit by blood mist note 24. note 25 (ii) is yelling, moving ahead out of view, firing heavy stubber. Sudden crossfire laser effect note 26.

  note 27

  note 28 (i) is just ahead of pict-source, charging into wide, flat chamber lit by green chemical lamps note 29. Subject (i) positively identified as Inquisitor Hetris Lugenbrau.

  LUGENBRAU: Quixos! Quixos! I put it all to the sword and the cleansing flame! Now you, monster! Now you, bastard!

  VOICE note 30: / am here, Lugenbrau. Kharnagar awaits.

  Lugenbrau (i) moves off-image. Pict-source pans. Image jerky. Body parts scattered on chamber floor note 31. Major detonation(s) nearby. Image shakes, pict-source falls sidelong.

  note 32

  note 33 Lugenbrau partly visible off frame left, engaged in combat. Afterglow-residue of force hammer blows remain burned on image for several seconds note 34.

  Pict-source turns to focus on Lugenbrau. Lugenbrau engaged in hand-to-hand combat with unknown foe. Movements too fast for pict-source to capture.

  Blur. Human figures note 35 move in from right frame. Heads of human figures explode. Figures topple.

  note 36

  note 37 Jerky shots of ground and wall. Refocus blurring. Pict-source reacquires Lugenbrau and adversary in combat note 38. Combat as before too rapid for pict-source to capture. Extensive background noise. Glowing line note 39 impales Lugenbrau. Image shakes note 40. Lugenbrau immolates note 41.

  note 42

  note 43 Close up of face looking into pict-source. Identity unknown [subject (iv)[. (iv) is handsome, sculptural, smiling, eyes blank.

  VOICE (iv): Hello, little thing. I am Cherubael.

  Light flash.

  Scream note 44.

  note 45

  ONE

  A cold coming.

  Death in the dormant vaults.

  Some puritanical reflections.

  Hunting the recidivist Murdin Eyclone, I came to Hubris in the Dormant of 240.M41, as the Imperial sidereal calendar has it.

  Dormant lasted eleven months of Hubris's twenty-nine month lunar year, and the only signs of life were the custodians with their lighted poles and heat-gowns, patrolling the precincts of the hibernation tombs.

  Within those sulking basalt and ceramite vaults, the grandees of Hubris slept, dreaming in crypts of aching ice, awaiting Thaw, the middle season between Dormant and Vital.

  Even the air was frigid. Frost encrusted the tombs, and a thick cake of ice covered the featureless land. Above, star patterns twinkled in the curious, permanent night. One of them was Hubris's sun, so far away now. Come Thaw, Hubris would spin into the
warm embrace of its star again.

  Then it would become a blazing globe. Now it was just a fuzz of light.

  As my gun-cutter set down on the landing cross at Tomb Point, I had pulled on an internally heated bodyskin and swathes of sturdy, insulated foul weather gear, but still the perilous cold cut through me now. My eyes watered, and the tears froze on my lashes and cheeks. I remembered the details of the cultural brief my savant had prepared, and quickly lowered my frost visor, trembling as warm air began to circulate under the plastic mask.

  Custodians, alerted to my arrival by astropathic hails, stood waiting for me at the base of the landing cross. Their lighted poles dipped in

  obeisance in the frozen night and the air steamed with the heat that bled from their cloaks. I nodded to them, showing their leader my badge of office. An ice-car awaited; a rust-coloured arrowhead twenty metres long, mounted on ski-blade runners and spiked tracks.

  It carried me away from the landing cross and I left the winking signal lights and the serrated dagger-shape of my gun-cutter behind in the perpetual winter night.

  The spiked tracks kicked up blizzards of rime behind us. Ahead, despite the lamps, the landscape was black and impenetrable. I rode with Lores Vibben and three custodians in a cabin lit only by the amber glow of the craft's control panel. Heating vents recessed in the leather seats breathed out warm, stale air.

  A custodian handed back a data-slate to Vibben. She looked at it cursorily and passed it on to me. I realised my frost visor was still down. I raised it and began to search my pockets for my eye glasses.

  With a smile, Vibben produced them from within her own swaddled, insulated garb. I nodded thanks, put them on my nose and began to read.

  I was just calling up the last plates of text when the ice-car halted.

  'Processional Two-Twelve,' announced one of the custodians.

  We dismounted, sliding our visors down into place.

  Jewels of frost-flakes fluttered in the blackness about us, sparkling as they crossed through the ice-car's lamp beams. I've heard of bitter cold. Emperor grace me I never feel it again. Biting, crippling, actually bitter to taste on the tongue. Every joint in my frame protested and creaked.

  My hands and my mind were numb.

  That was not good.

  Processional Two-Twelve was a hibernation tomb at the west end of the great Imperial Avenue. It housed twelve thousand, one hundred and forty-two members of the Hubris ruling elite.