Dark Apostle

266 Pages·2016·1.23 MB·English

by  Reynolds Anthony

A WARHAMMER 40,000 NOVEL
DARK APOSTLE
Word Bearers - 01
Anthony Reynolds
(v1.0)
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.”
“Calm your mind, First Acolyte,” boomed the ancient one. It was the sound
of the sepulchre given voice, an impossibly deep baritone that reverberated
through the still tomb, deep within the strike cruiser. Each word was spoken
slowly and deliberately, amplified through powerful vox-units.
Once he had been a mighty hero who fought at the side of the greatest
warriors ever to have lived. As a captain he had led great companies of the
Legion against the foes of Lorgar and the Warmaster, and Marduk had studied all
of his recorded sermons and exhortations. They were masterpieces of rhetoric
and faith, filled with righteous hatred, and his skill at deciphering and predicting
the twisting patterns of the future through his ritualised dream visions were
astounding. He had fallen fighting against the archenemies, the deniers of the
truth, those who followed the False Emperor in their ignorance and blindness.
“You fight your visions too hard. They are gifts from the gods, and as with all
gifts bestowed from the great powers, you should receive them with thanks.”
The meagre physical remnants of the inspirational leader had been interred
within the sarcophagus that lay before Marduk. Though his body was utterly
ruined, he was destined to live on within the tomb of his new shell, and become
the Warmonger. While the other Dreadnoughts of the Legion had slowly
succumbed to madness and raving insanity, the Warmonger retained much of his
lucidity. It was his faith, Erebus himself had stated, that kept him from slipping
into darkness.
All the anger and frustration flowed out of Marduk, and he smiled. The face
that had looked brooding and twisted with anger a moment before was darkly
handsome once again, black eyes glinting.
“Pray for enlightenment, but do not be impatient and expect instant
gratification,” continued the Warmonger. “Knowledge and power will come to
you, for you are on the path of the devout, and the favour of the gods is upon
you. But you must let yourself succumb to the embrace of the great powers; they
will buoy you, and only then will the veil be lifted from your eyes. Only then
will you see what your vision means. You need not fear the darkness, for you are
the darkness.”
The Warmonger flexed its huge, mechanical arms, hissing steam venting from
the joints.
“My weapons ache for the bloodshed to begin anew,” the dreadnought said,
massive weapon feeds aligning themselves in anticipation. “Do we fight
alongside our Lord Lorgar this day?”
“Not today,” said Marduk quietly, recognising that the Warmonger’s lucidity
was slipping. It was often this way.
“And the Warmaster? Do his battles against the False Emperor fare well? Has
he yet dethroned the hated betrayer, the craven abandoner of the Crusade?”
The mention of the Warmaster Horus pained Marduk. He longed for the
simpler days of the past, when the victory of the Warmaster over the Emperor
seemed like a certainty. The memories were fresh in his mind, and his anger,
hatred and outrage burned within him stronger than ever. He wished he had been
at the battle of the Emperor’s palace on Terra alongside the Warmonger and most